For Queen and Country
by OUATLovr
Summary: AU of 2x02. Milady makes a different decision, one which has lasting effects on the fate of France, and our heroes find themselves fighting the greatest threat they've ever faced.
1. Prologue: Sleight of Hand

Part 1: The Queen (being an account of the events which nearly destroyed France)

Summary: AU of 2x02. Milady makes a different decision, one which has lasting effects on the fate of France, and our heroes find themselves fighting the greatest threat they've ever faced. Just to clarify: this fic starts in season one, but does not go AU until 2x02, at which point it almost totally disregards canon.

Warning: Will post warnings for individual chapters if needed, however, overall warnings include: swashbuckling musketeer violence, small time jumps, sensual content, character deaths, and serious angst throughout.

Disclaimer: This is a fictitious three part work based off of the BBC series The Musketeers, and many historical liberties have been taken. I started this before season three came out, obviously, so my apologies for any glaring differences.

A/N: Well, here it is. This is a slow-burn, and by slow, I mean...well, this is going to be an _extremely long ride,_ as well as sometimes having long waits between updates. Please review.

* * *

Anne could remember the first time she had done this, visiting a group of lowly prisoners to bestow her mercy upon them.

She had been with her father at the time, still a little child, though her mother no longer lived, but her father had insisted on her accompanying him, as he wished to spend as much time with his eldest child as he could before she was sent away to France to marry it's next King.

And she had gone because she never wished to displease her father, and, inwardly, she was curious.

She understood that those who lived in prisons were a wicked bunch, that they had caused their own hardships by their evil deeds, but, at ten years old, Anne did not know the applicable meaning of the word hardship. She had lived a charmed childhood, save for the loss of her mother.

Her father's advisors had argued against allowing the _Infanta_ to accompany him to the prisons; it was a horrific place to take such a young child, but her father the King had insisted.

After all, once she became Queen of France, as his advisors were all pushing for, she would be grateful that she already understood at least one of her duties.

She had never forgotten what she had seen that day, in the Spanish prison beneath her father's castle, and had endeavored since always to be kind to those who did not have what she did, whether they were considered "deserving," or not. It was a trait for which she was not popular amongst the French nobility, and yet a trait for which the French commoners seemed to love her, and Anne would rather have their love than simpering nobles' any day.

This particular prison was a devastating place, and though Anne came here once but every year for the holiday, she could not help but pity the poor souls who lived out their sentences here even while she was not around to see their pain. It made her feel increasingly more generous each time she came to visit them, fearful for the horrid way in which they might live out the rest of their days if she was not.

French prisons were even worse, in her estimation, than Spanish ones. She did not have nearly as much experience with Spanish prisons as she did with French, but she could not remember the prisoners being treated so wretchedly in her father's kingdom. She could, however, remember her father bestowing upon the worthy amongst them their freedom, and those who were not so worthy the supplies to last in such conditions for a while longer and, even if her husband did not cater to the needs of prisoners so readily, she would see the thing done here, as well.

She knew, as she told Treville, the Master of her husband's Musketeers, that she could not help all of them, but she would like to think that her arrival every year helped some, and that they used such help to make for themselves a better life. One that would not find them returned to such a wretched place.

The Musketeers had come along for her protection, but she knew that they were up to something, even if they would not tell her what, exactly, that was. However, since their own Captain had come along, as well, she knew that she was safe.

Anne knew all too well, despite the assurances of those around her, that many of these poor souls would only fall into depravity and destitution once more, freed from their cells, having no where else to go, even if she said otherwise to her ladies and to Treville.

She was officially here to pardon a few well-deserving prisoners from their fates. She only wished that she could pardon them all, for none deserved such fates.

She took a deep breath, and the gates opened. Behind her, one of her ladies, Comtessa Jeanette, made a sound deep in her throat, letting Anne know that she found this place every bit as distasteful as Anne had figured she would.

Hence the invitation, to come along with her. Even Queens had to have a bit of fun, every once in a while, and her French ladies spared no amount of malice toward her.

The warden stepped forward, offering her a brown, toothy smile.

She did not recognize him from the past year, and wondered at that. How many wardens left this place because they could not stand to remain?

"Good morning, Your Majesty. A few fortunate souls will be granted their freedom today." He, at least, sounded more pleased than Treville had been, with the prospect.

No small wonder; he had chosen those men himself, from amongst the best of his prisoners. She might have thought, from his expression, that he had chosen the worst, only to be rid of them.

But she knew that the worst offenders of this place would never be brought before the Queen of France.

She held out her hand, offering him a brilliant smile along with it. "I wish I could pardon all your prisoners," she said sincerely.

He gave her a smile that did not quite reach his eyes. Perhaps the thought of some of those prisoners running amuck in Paris frightened him.

It certainly frightened Richelieu, who attempted to disuade she and her husband from this course of action every year. But even he understood that, should they do so, it would make them appear suddenly malevolent in the eyes of the people, and that could not be born.

"Your Majesty should not waste her sympathy on those who do not deserve it," Treville spoke up then, taking the Queen's arm when the warden dropped it, and sounding almost reproachful.

She had heard that tone from him many times, usually aimed at the King after he had done something exceptionally foolish, or at Richlieu, when they disagreed on something.

Rarely ever toward her, for he was one of the few souls in France who were truly kind to her.

"All men need hope, Captain." She glanced at him. "Without it, why should they lead a decent life?"

Treville stayed silent. Perhaps because he realized that she knew more about that topic than she should have.

Hope, after all, was the only thing to sustain her in the early years of her reign as Queen of France.

The warden snapped his orders, and then the prisoners were brought into the courtyard.

Anne could not help but suck in a breath as they came into view, hands chained with manacles, bodies stooped with years of hard labor and desperation. They were covered in grime and soot, feet bare and eyes down, staring at the dirt as if it was their savior. Torn clothes revealed emaciated frames, and Anne could not remember them appearing so poorly last year.

They were frightened of _her_ , and that only caused her to pity them further.

She spared a moment, then, to wonder whether they had even been told what the Queen planned for them. Did they know that she provided their freedom, or did they think she planned to kill them?

"They look half dead, poor things," Anne breathed, unconcerned by the emotionless nod she recieved from Treville at these words.

She knew that the King's Captain thought the King and Queen naive to the suffering of their people. Most did. They sat in their palace and ordered hunts and celebrations while the French people starved in the streets below.

And she knew that this small act, performed but once a year, along with several other of her charitable acts could not, in fact, change that, but she could hope that these things might help a dozen fortunate souls.

She sighed, turning her attentions once more to the prisoners. "In his great mercy, and in the name of God, the King has granted you clemency."

As if the King had anything to do with it. No, in fact, it was he who had refused to go to the prison himself today, having thrown a fit about yesterday's hunting trip and secluding himself in his chambers.

Some part of her loved some part of him, but she was almost relieved to go alone.

The prisoners glanced up then, perhaps astonished that they were being freed, rather than sent to their deaths.

Anne took a bag of silver from the servant standing behind her, handing it to the first prisoner to near her. "I hope this small gift will help you in your new lives."

She could not fail to notice that the musketeers had some other motive for coming here, and were just now fulfilling it, for just then several departed from the group, heading down towards the dungeons.

And yet she could not bring herself to worry over it, still spellbound by the men before her. "Did you see the gratitude on their faces, Captain? Mercy is more effective than any whip or gallows."

"The worst defenders would only consider Your Majesty's gentle nature a weakness," Treville responded readily, and Anne could not help the sigh that escaped her throat at the words. "Some men are just born bad."

She ignored him, continuing to hand out the little sacks of silver without comment. She would not allow his words to dissuade her from her purpose here, after all.

In that moment, she heard a shout from a musketeer, and then the courtyard was swarming with escaped prisoners, most still wearing chains about their wrists and ankles.

They thronged around the Queen and her men, clearly not organized, but all making for the escape routes.

Treville grabbed her arm, pulling her toward the exit from which they had come and unsheathing his sword.

One of the prisoners rushed at him, throwing out his arms in an attempt to strangle the man with his chains, but Treville made short work of him.

The Queen stared in horror at the man's body as it hit the ground, and then Treville was ripping her away from it.

"Protect the Queen!" Treville shouted, and then she was being surrounded by her own men, in an attempt to pull her to safety.

"Get the Queen out!" he ordered to his men, and Anne licked her lips nervously. Not in all her years had an uprising occured while she was at the prison itself.

A criminal-one of those worst offenders that Treville had mentioned, she suspected- suddenly grabbed her from behind, and she let out a scream of terror as a gun, a gun impossibly acquired, for a prisoner here, appeared in his hands.

The other prisoners surged around them.

She gasped, breath catching in her throat, as the man's gun pressed against her temple.

"Oi!" he shouted, and she wondered at her own men's ineptitude, that they had not even noticed her missing from their small party till now. "Oi!"

Even still, terror raced through her. She had never been the victim of a hostage situation before, not in all her years as Queen, and the thought that she might die now, on a day when she had only been attempting to help those like this man, terrified her.

"Stop! Or your Queen dies!"

She was too afraid to notice that, though the boy beside the criminal holding her looked familiar, she could not place him.

"Hold your fire!" Treville shouted, and she could see some of her fear reflected in his own eyes.

"Back," the criminal hissed, and then louder, "Back!"

"Open the gate. Open. The. Gate." He shook her then, as if to remind them of his power over them. Treville gave the order with a mere sweep of his hand, and Anne gasped again.

None of the her husband's musketeers moved forward, clearly too frightened that the criminal would kill her if they did.

The gates behind lazily swung open, she heard running footsteps behind her, and then, "Vadim!"

So that was the name of her captor. She recognized it now; he was a notorious criminal, one that the Cardinal was rather overly concerned about, according to Louis.

She could not help but wonder now, that, when he got what he wanted, he would not still shoot her out of pure spite.

Tears stung at her eyes, and her breath was coming faster now, in loud gasps that filled the courtyard.

The boy, well, a young man, dressed in shabby rags and exchanging a frightened look with her. She wondered at that, for this boy certainly appeared familiar, though she wasn't sure why.

However, in the next moment he proved himself very much on the side of Vadim, for he stepped up behind the man and hissed in his ear, no longer looking at Anne.

"You see?" Vadim spoke to the boy now, sounding almost triumphant. Yes, she did know this boy from somewhere, Anne decided, watching him carefully. "I told you they'd let me walk out of here."

The boy spoke then, and it was with his softspoken words that she placed his identity.

A rush of relief swept through her, though she took great effort not show it. He was a recruit of the musketeers; she recognized him, from the time he had come to the castle and reported before the King.

She was safe. At least, safer.

But then, what was a musketeer doing beside this criminal?

"Hurt the queen, and we're all dead. You don't need her anymore. Let's go. Come on!" the boy hissed.

There was a pregnant pause, during which Anne was certain Vadim would shoot her anyway.

Then, "Your Majesty, my apologies. I hope that, apart from this, you've enjoyed your trip."

He kissed her forehead, and she knew that the vulgar feel of his greasy lips against her skin would never wash away, no matter how many hours she spent trying.

Rough hands shoved her forward, and she flailed, hardly aware of the men running around her, of the guns exploding in the courtyard. She thought she could hear the sound of horses, wondered if that was the direction she should move toward.

Perhaps she was to die here anyway, in the crossfire. She did not know what to do; she could hardly think.

Strong arms wrapped around her, and for a moment, she was terrified that Vadim had caught her again, that he had not let go of her to begin with, and that he was going to take her as his hostage.

That, in itself, was her greatest fear. Even more so than death.

It had been eight years since her marriage to the King, eight tumultous, barren years, and the thought of being abducted by a common criminal...she felt the breath stop in her lungs, knew that she would rather die...

Then those strong arms were shoving her to the ground, and the body they belonged to went down with them. She let out a cry that was quickly stifled as the air flew from her lungs at the sudden movement.

It was a musketeer; though she did not yet know his name, she at least knew now that she was safe when she recognized the inisignia on his shoulder, pressed into her nose.

As if aware of her remaining fear, the kindly musketeer placed a gentle hand over her head, shielding her from the mayhem but also blinding her from the bloodshed around them. The hand cupped her head, strong yet gentle, at the same time, and Anne found herself leaning into it, grasping for some sense of comfort.

She closed her eyes as she did so, hoping that when she opened them, all of this would have gone away. Pretended that she did not press into his hand, running comfortingly through her hair.

The world stood still, and, in that moment, there were only the two of them, her savior and herself.

Above her, the musketeer was breathing heavily, his broad chest pressed against her. "Don't worry," he whispered, pushing himself up. "It's fine."

The fact that he did not call her 'Your Majesty,' for once, comforted her. For, while her ladies conveniently forgot the title out of malice, he spoke as though to a friend, and she was glad for it.

Still, she could not bring herself to open her eyes, for fear that the words were not really his; that he was dead, lying above her, covered in blood.

"Look at me," he commanded softly, and when she did not open her eyes, repeated himself. "Look at me."

Slowly, her eyes pried open, and she found herself gazing into the most beautiful pools of brown that she had ever seen. Brown, not red with blood as she had been expecting.

She took a deep breath, giving him an almost-smile.

"It's over," he said, those beautiful eyes so earnest, so sincere, "I've got you." And, this time, she believed him.

And neither of them moved from their position on the ground. Anne feared that, should she attempt to stand, her legs would only give out beneath her.

In an effort to deflect her embarrassment at being so close to a man who was not her husband, and yet having no intention of leaving that presence, she whispered, "So you have." Then she smiled, and he took entirely the wrong concern from it.

Peeling himself away, his voice suddenly clear and ringing, as a soldier to his queen, rather than the friend he had been moments ago, "My apologies, Your Majesty."

When he was gone, she missed his soothing presence.

She gripped his shoulders, tightly, and allowed him to pull them both to their feet, not certain if she did so for her own unsteadiness or as an excuse to keep him near.

It was only then, when they were standing and his hair had brushed away from the nape of his neck, that she noticed the small trickle of blood, just below his right ear.

"You're hurt," she noted, and hated that she sounded so fascinated by it. That this man, injured even a little, had protected her so valiantly.

She feared that her own husband would never have done so.

The musketeer blinked at her.

Slowly, giving him a moment to protest, she lifted a hand to his ear, inspecting the wound for herself. Something within her fluttered when he did speak, only continued staring, as if he might bend down to kiss her.

Then his hand closed around her own, pushing it gently away, and she wondered at that, her eyes going wide and innocent.

Had she pushed too far beyond the limits of familiarity? She had not meant to frighten him, and some of her emotions must have shown on her face, for he was quick to reassure her, "Hardly a scratch, Your Majesty."

The Captain spoke up then, shouting from across the bridge, "Aramis, get your Queen to the carriages!"

Aramis. So that was the name of her rescuer.

She would have to remember it, though she doubted she would have a hard time doing so.

Aramis quickly took the Queen's elbow, leading her out of the prison and to the waiting carriages, where her ladies in waiting had already fled.

She supposed she was as glad to leave as the men she had just freed, both purposely and the traitor Vadim.

"Come, Your Majesty," Aramis whispered in her ear, and she nodded breathlessly, letting him lead her out of the prisons as though she were seeing the gates to freedom for the first time herself.

If he noticed the way she stumbled, leaning against him for support, he said nothing, for which she was grateful.

She was not normally this fragile, she liked to think.

Most of her ladies had already found their way to the carriages on their own, and she did not take the time to note how disloyal they were, to abandon their Queen in the line of fire.

"Your Majesty," Lady Jeanette, her first lady after the exile of Marie, broke out at the sight of the Queen, and looked almost suprised to see her alive and unharmed. Almost disappointed, part of her couldn't help but think.

Anne lifted her chin, giving the woman a kindly smile where she would have preferred to frown. It would not do, after all, to appear anything less than a Queen. "Jeanette. I am well. We shall return to the palace once the prison is secure."

She could remember the Comte de Rochefort drilling that lesson into her before she had even arrived in France.

"Yes, Your Majesty," her ladies dipped their heads, none meeting her eyes.

Of course, she reminded herself, she was not their Queen; she had never quite been that. She was Anne of Austria, the Spanish Queen, and they were French ladies. Yes, they would have been punished had she actually been killed, but it had been avoided.

She glanced back at her savior, at the valiant musketeer.

Aramis, the Captain had said his name was.

She would not soon forget him.


	2. The Exiles

Disclaimer: Some parts of this chapter were taken directly from the title episode. Later on, this story will become completely AU, but for now, we're just taking a moment to set the scene.

* * *

The ceremony at the cathedral in Paris was ornate, lovely, and one of the longest which Anne had ever attended. She did not mind; she was a good Catholic woman, and she had little to do once she returned to the castle, save for walking amongst the gardens and hoping to amuse herself for the rest of the day until she saw her king again, and, as he had not appeared at the ceremony, she doubted she would be seeing much of him.

But by the time her escort of the musketeer and ladies accompanying her had returned her to the carriage which would take her back to the castle, Anne's body felt exhausted from sitting for so long, and she wanted nothing more than to stretch her legs.

She did not make it more than a mile or so before she held up a hand, surprised that she had even made it this far, indicating the musketeer riding outside that she wished to stop the carriage.

A moment later, the carriage pulled to a halt, and her ladies all glanced up in surprise, no doubt wondering what could possess their queen to wish to stop in the middle of the road.

"My lady," Comtessa Jeannette called out reproachfully as the musketeer guiding them, a man whom Anne had been a little disappointed to see was not _her_ musketeer, handed Anne down from the golden carriage, and, frankly, Anne was surprised that it had taken her so long to do so. "Do not do this. It is dangerous, when we have but one guard, and improper, without the King to accompany you."

Anne lifted a gloved hand, silencing the woman almost at once, and found herself smiling as Jeannette's mouth snapped shut.

She was not a woman to be ordinarily pleased with humiliating others, and yet, could not find it within herself to leave Comtessa Jeanette, spy of the Cardinal and one-time spy of Marie de Medici, entirely in peace. The woman had wounded her brutally over the years through her espionage, and though Anne had forgiven her for most of it, there were some things Jeannette d'Garnay could not be forgiven for, no matter how many times Anne prayed to the Lord to give her peace about them.

Her other ladies stayed silent, and Anne wondered at that, why they were more than willing to accept her odd behavior, even if she knew that, deep down, they disapproved of it, when Jeannette so openly voiced her opinions against the Queen. Perhaps it was the Cardinal's influence, his wish to keep her in line no matter the means to do so.

She supposed that she could always trust Jeannette to be honest with her, in that regard, even if she could not in most others.

It was not a particularly reassuring thought, that one.

Anne spun abruptly to her musketeer guard, uncaring of the mud that scraped over her slippers at the movement, and gave him a pleasant smile, knowing that, while she may be the Queen of France, it was up to his judgment whether or not she could go through with what she was planning. He was tasked with her protection, after all.

She thought he looked familiar, this musketeer; _Porthos_ , her mind supplied, from somewhere buried deep. He looked a gruff character, and yet he seemed gentle enough, to her, in the few times she had seen him interact with...Aramis.

She felt guilty, remembering that he had almost been killed for something he had not done, had been arrested on her husband's orders. That when he was free and clear and that horrible situation with the Court of Miracles was cleared up, her husband had offered no apology, and yet here he was, still as ready to defend her as ever.

Gallant, always, these musketeers.

"I wish to walk amongst the people," she informed him coolly. "If you will accompany me."

He looked startled at her words, but quickly recovered. "Your Majesty, perhaps, if you wish t' walk amongst the people here, we should send out and wait for reinforcements. It may not be wise for you t' go alone."

Anne lifted a brow. "Nonsense. I have you, and my ladies, to protect me. Today is a day of giving and thanks, and I wish to give to those in worse situations than I, if I can?"

At these words, her ladies grudgingly climbed out of the carriage, holding up their skirts with shaking hands and glancing rather nervously at each other, and Anne wondered if they were more concerned about the mud from the streets sullying their dresses or the company of the common people. She herself knew that she was concerned about neither.

Porthos hesitated only a moment longer, eyebrows furrows in thought as he studied her, as if wondering about her intentions, and she wondered if he was considering sending for reinforcements anyway. Gallant, these musketeers were, but unafraid to do what they believed to be right for the service of those they held loyalty to, she had found.

She wondered if Porthos' loyalty to her came because he felt she deserved it or merely because she was the Queen of France.

"Very well, Your Majesty."

Anne bit back a grin and swept past him, a small bundle full of gold coins in her hands.

"Caroline!" she called out, and her favorite lady swept forward, taking her arm.

Caroline was younger than she by several years, pretty but usually quiet, the daughter of a French nobleman who had no aspirations other than finding his many daughters a suitable match, and it was for this reason that Anne knew she could trust the other woman.

She had not had cause to trust any of her ladies since Louis had sent away all of her Spanish ladies years ago, and it was...refreshing, to have someone by her side whom she could almost call a friend.

"Your Majesty," she whispered, very close to Anne's ear, her lips tickling it. "I do not think this is so good an idea. Give your ladies the money and let them disperse it...after what nearly happened in the Court of Miracles, many of the people are displeased with the monarchy..."

Anne smiled gently. "Nonsense. The people need to see that their King and Queen are just as caring for their plights as they are," she said, and that was as far as Caroline dared go, it would seem, for she fell in line alongside Anne after that and said nothing more.

The people crowded around their Queen as she walked, her ladies hurrying along behind her, the Queen's coins dispersed amongst them to hand out, and Porthos walking alongside her, holding up a hand to shield them off when they came too close.

Of course, not even the large musketeer could shield her from the awestruck touches of the common people, as they reached forward to touch her shoulders, the edge of her gown, such finery that they would never have, as though receiving a blessing from a saint.

"Your Majesty!"

"Your Grace!"

"Your Majesty!"

Anne smiled at each one of them, handing out coins to any hands she passed without a thought; today was, after all, a day of giving, and she had no need for the pretty coins to buy her dresses when these people were starving out of their homes.

It was an age old tradition, handing out coins to the common people and hearing their plights, even if there was little she could do for them beyond that without holding a formal hearing, and she knew well the likelihood of any of these people having the funds for that sort of thing.

One of the men in the crowd stepped out in front of her then, and Porthos stiffened, the hand which did not remain protectively in front of the Queen reaching for his sword's hilt.

The man was old, his greying hairs sticking out in ragged whiskers about his face, his eyes clouded and face sallow. He wore rags for clothing, and, the moment he realized he had the Queen's attention, he went down on one knee, bowing his head respectfully until she acknowledged him.

He did not have to wait long.

"Your Majesty," he whispered, and Anne could only hear him for the silence which had fallen over the crowd. "I beg of you, mercy."

Anne stepped forward, holding out her purse of coins invitingly, but the old man simply shook his head, falling back on the balls of his feet. "I cannot accept your gift, Your Majesty. I only ask a pittance of you, a mercy for my daughter." When he saw that he had the Queen's attention, he went on, "She was attacked by the Red Guard not two nights ago, and is being held up in the Bastille for a crime which she did not commit, Your Majesty. Please, you must help her."

Anne stepped forward, ignoring the musketeer's harsh whisper to stay back, lest she fall for some sort of trap, and taking the old man's hands in her own to give him a reassuring smile. "I will do whatever I can to assist your child, monsieur," she told him, gently. "In the meantime, I beg of you to take this small gift from me, as a promise that she will be restored to you." And she held out the golden purse once more.

The old man hesitated; she could see in his eyes the thoughts running through his head, and, before he could protest again, pressed the purse into his hands, closing his fingers over it.

And then he was sucked into the crowd by the other peasants, moving forward to touch or receive coins from their coin, but Anne could not bring herself to forget about him, her eyes still troubled as she moved amongst the people, smiling and making promises that she only hoped she could keep.

* * *

Porthos had never been assigned to guard the Queen alone before. Frankly, he wondered why the King had not sent the usual number of musketeers to protect her, and then thought that the King probably had not expected her to get out of her carriage and walk with the people.

If it was simply to escort her to the cathedral where she might make her prayers and then back to the palace, surely the King, naïve as he was, didn't think there was any chance of her coming to harm.

He wondered at that, when so recently there had been attempts made on the lives of both the king and the queen, but did not question his orders.

Besides, the Queen's activities were proving to be far more distracting than he'd originally thought.

To begin with, her ladies were beautiful, and not just in the way that Aramis saw beauty, in everything that had legs, but truly beautiful, and so Porthos had managed to amuse himself during the ceremony at the cathedral easily enough, and now this.

He hadn't thought to look to Queen Anne for recklessness, stubbornness. In the time that he had served the French Court, he had always assumed she was a quiet, loving wife of the King, a pretty face, for this was the aura that seemed to want others to see.

And yet...she had given that token to Aramis, as if she thought he deserved especial accolades for his saving her, had insisted on going out amongst the people today.

It was not something he thought King Louis would be caught doing if he could help it, nor was it something he thought the King would approve of his wife doing.

Porthos wondered, idly, what else he had misjudged of the Queen's character, even as he pushed back a particularly daring commoner, who seemed to feel the need to grab the Queen's hand, rather than simply touching it.

The Queen did not seem perturbed by this. She only smiled, handing the overeager man a golden coin that was more than Porthos made in a week of service to the Crown, and moving on.

He did not know how long they walked with the people, only that, by the time the Queen and her ladies finally seemed to succumb to fatigue, the sun was high in the sky and their carriage was far from them.

"I suppose we'll have to walk back," Lady Jeannette sighed then, looking pointedly at Porthos, as if she thought he could materialize carriages out of thin air.

If he'd had a partner with him, as he'd asked Treville to send one, even though the King had expressly demanded only one guard on his queen today, he might have been able to. As it was, he didn't dare chance leaving the Queen alone in this crowd which, rather than thinning out, seemed only to be growing.

The walk back was relatively silent, the people's cries out to the Queen the only noise as they moved toward the carriage, Porthos standing as close to the Queen as he could to protect her, and Caroline handing out the rest of the Queen's coin indiscriminately.

It was not until they had returned to the carriage, and Porthos was helping the Queen back into it, that she leaned down and whispered into his ear, "And your musketeer brother, Aramis? Is he well?"

Porthos blinked at the question, glancing up at her, but the Queen was already stepping into the carriage, and the next lady was waiting impatiently for him to hand her in as well.

He just managed to give the Queen a curt nod before moving back to his horse, shaking his head in wonderment.

There had been musketeers who had unflinchingly saved the Queen's life before. He didn't understand her sudden interest in Aramis for doing so, but perhaps telling his brother in arms about the incident would lighten his spirit, if only a little.

Porthos left the Queen's presence only when she had been returned to the safety of the palace, shaking his head as he did, not entirely sure whether to sigh or laugh at the Queen's utter lack of comprehension of the danger she might have found herself in, walking about the slums of Paris. How many of those determined to touch her for some holy blessing or, more likely, a spare bit of coin, would just as gladly attempt to slit her throat, given the chance to do so?

He sometimes thought the royals were insane. Still, they provided a wealth of entertainment, so long as one had the right humor.

Getting back to the musketeers' garrison was far easier without the presence of the Queen and her ladies, seeing as no one held the interest in a lone musketeer that they held in the coins of their Queen, and Porthos managed to find himself lunch at one of the merchant stalls along the way. Stew, rabbit, if he had to guess, stringy down the throat, and yet filling after a long morning with the Queen.

When he finally returned to the garrison, it was only to find the place entirely empty - save for one person, and his lips stretched into a thin smile.

"Aramis?"

Aramis glanced up from his new musket, setting aside the oiled cloth he'd been using to clean it to give Porthos his full attention, even as he sat on top of one of the tables pushed up near the walls of the garrison, a wistful expression on his face. "I'm listening," he said finally, sounding almost belligerent, and Porthos sighed.

Aramis had been abstaining from spending his nights in some woman's bedroom for the past few weeks, opting instead to stay in the barracks, in the room he shared with Porthos, and Porthos was beginning to get worried.

For, while it was not unusual for Aramis to abstain from sexual urges when he found himself closing in on his newest conquest, slowly but surely convincing her to go to bed with him, as Porthos well knew, he had neither seen nor heard any proof of a new, serious mistress. And he had gotten rather used to having his own room in the barracks recently.

After Adele's abandonment, going off to the country to live as the Cardinal's pampered mistress, or so they all assumed, considering she had been thinking on this for some time, and Aramis would no longer speak of her, Aramis had mourned her for several days - honestly, that was the longest Porthos had ever seen him mourn a woman's absence - before moving on.

The Countess de Chagny had provided sufficient distractions for a time, amongst other highborn women that Aramis always foolishly involved himself with, despite - or, perhaps, because of - the danger, but even she seemed to have fallen to the wayside recently, and Porthos didn't understand it, for the Countess was always a good distraction when Aramis seemed to need it, as he did now.

If Aramis was pining for a new woman who as of yet refused to take him to bed, he was usually rather forthcoming of the situation, and yet he only brooded and distracted himself with his muskets these days. If this was still about Adele...

Yes, Porthos was very worried.

Because he knew Aramis better than anyone, sometimes even better than Aramis himself seemed to, and, try as he had _not_ to notice it, Porthos was no fool.

He had seen the way Aramis sometimes looked down at that cross hanging around his neck, the one the Queen had given him as thanks for saving her life, as thought _it_ was a woman, rather than a piece of jewelry. Seen the way he would fondle it, turning it over and over in his hands, enough that even Athos and, once, d'Artagnan, had caught and commented on the distraction, Athos sounding a bit more suspicious than d'Artagnan had been.

And he'd heard often enough, when Aramis was despondent enough with the life of a musketeer, his wish to join the priesthood.

But Porthos did not understand what might have caused this sudden change in his friend, and that worried him most of all, for surely, if something so troubling that it caused Aramis to abstain from women and stare down at that cross as though it was now his only hope would have been noticed by his best friend, at the very least.

And, since Aramis was not spending his nights in his most recent mistress' arms, he was spending the majority of them in a tavern with Athos and Porthos, and sometimes d'Artagnan, though his company was considerably less at those late hours, since the Bonacieux man was against "a musketeer returning in the dead of night and waking us from much needed sleep."

It was...strange, to say the least, but not unwelcome, to have Aramis' company in the evenings, brooding though it was.

"What are you doing back so early?" he asked, sliding into the stool across from Aramis, and giving his musket a pointed look. He had a feeling that if Aramis shined it anymore, it would break.

Aramis shrugged. "The Captain needed a message delivered to some Comtessa or another," he said, voice strangely bland, though, that was not so strange, these days, it would seem. "I delivered it. Now I'm back."

Porthos rolled his eyes. "And the Captain?"

Aramis glanced down at his musket, almost lovingly, as if Porthos were purposefully pulling him away from cleaning it. "Off to do the King's business, I'm told. Should be back in an hour or two."

Porthos eyed the other man. "Well then, I don't suppose you're up for a spar until he returns? Swords though, not muskets."

Aramis grinned, though it was slightly more strained than usual, as he stood to his feet and reached for the pommel of his weapon. "You're on."

If there was one place where Aramis was not acting strangely, it was the sparring field, and Porthos soon had him fighting and sweating like old times, glad that he no longer seemed quite so despondent.

It was not until the end of the match that he remembered to tell his friend about the Queen's asking after him specifically.

Aramis' eyes widened. "Did she?" he asked, pretending to sound disinterested in a way that made him sound especially so, and then flipping his sword in his hands, seeming suddenly more cheerful. "Care for another match?"

Still, Porthos was more concerned than usual when, the next morning, Treville gave d'Artagnan and Aramis a mission to the countryside, far from where Porthos might be able to keep an eye on his friend. To a church, of all places.

But at least D'Artagnan would be there to make sure he didn't do anything stupid.

Or so Porthos hoped.

* * *

Queen Anne was a woman of simple enough emotions. She was kind to those who had less than she, and showered riches upon her favorites at Court, of which there were very few, lest they were servants.

Her husband had once accused her of enjoying the company of peasants more than the French nobility, had scolded her for it.

He had been right, of course, though Anne had not admitted it, pretending to take his words into account.

She knew that, in their own way, they were kindly given. A warning, rather than the anger they appeared to be.

A shadow crossed the top of her vision.

She looked up from her book, fully expecting to see one of her ladies, full of ill-concealed scorn for their Spanish Queen, only to be surprised by the sight of her husband, standing above her, fidgeting awkwardly as though he had been waiting for her attention.

Her husband was not a man who waited for anything eagerly, and she supposed she ought to give him some credit for doing so.

His entourage stood just out in the hall, and Jacqueline was nowhere to be seen.

"Our Queen will be accompanying us for supper?" and the King sounded almost as nervous as the first time he had taken her into bed.

Anne glanced up from her reading, smiling, though her eyes were wary. "Of course, Your Majesty," she said calmly, setting aside her book and standing. It was a rare thing when her husband asked to dine with her, and she took it as a sign.

Her ladies stood as well, alll curtseying for the King before taking their exit.

Anne stared after them while biting her lip, wishing she had some plausible excuse for refusing a meal with her husband, for she wasn't sure she wanted to be with him just now.

Louis gave her a grateful smile, holding out his arm. She took it, though rather stiffly, and followed him to the dining hall, his entourage walking behind.

She was pleased to see that the Cardinal was not amongst them.

"I hope my lady is finding her reading enjoyable this evening?" Louis asked then, words coming out forced and stiff, and Anne almost smiled. She could remember him being this nervous, in their first few years of marriage.

Naught had changed since then in most ways between them, it seemed. They were still just as awkward around each other as they had ever been.

"Indeed, Your Majesty. Dante is a most invigorating read, even after doing so several times."

The King paused then, glancing at her worriedly. "If my lady is displeased with her books, perhaps I could send for more from the city."

She smiled. "That would be most welcome, Your Majesty."

In truth, she had wished to read Dante. To remind herself of the fates of their immortal souls, when they died. It was not comforting, so much as grounding, to Anne.

It had been some time since the King and Queen shared a meal together. Indeed, they rarely did so unless the Cardinal was spouting worries that their...intimacy had come under question, or papal visitors were at Court.

As far as she knew, no such visitors were at Court. Indeed, France had been oddly quiet of late.

The dining hall, when they arrived, was filled with servants, bustling about and heaping food onto a table more suitable for a feast than two.

She glanced at her husband. "Are we expecting others, Your Majesty?"

He gave her that smile again, the one that most thought full of boyish confidence, but that she, having known him long enough, realized only belied true nerves.

"Do I need an excuse to pamper my wife?" he asked, only partially serious, and she knew then. Knew what he wanted. "We spend so little time together these days, my darling."

She wondered then, if he was planning on taking her to bed, tonight. But she had never seen her Louis so forward about it; he usually planned such things for weeks ahead of time, nervous and constantly looking for some sort of excuse to avoid it.

Not exactly subtle, but never outright demanding she spend time with him.

She wasn't sure if this was a good thing or bad, this...supper.

He was trying, after all, and didn't they have a duty to France to at least do that much?

She did not know when she had forgotten that, pining over their lost children and thinking up excuse after excuse for not going into bed with him again.

It was not that she disliked her husband. Far from it; she found his shyness endearing, for the most part, especially when directed toward her, though his childish tantrums and total reliance upon the Cardinal she could have done without.

But after years of trying for a child, an heir, and meeting only with disappointment, she feared that their relationship could never truly form into anything stronger but shy, innocent phrases and public appearances.

Anne sat across the table from her husband, and took a sip of wine.

She had a feeling she was going to need it.

It was halfway through the meal, neither seeming to have much of an appetite any more, nor, indeed, much to say, when Louis erupted, as if he'd been thinking through the entire meal for something to say, "Well, but that was a strange occurence, in the Court of Miracles."

The Queen lifted a brow. "Indeed, Your Majesty."

"The Cardinal assures me that the...undesirables there will still be dealt with, most harshly, despite his failure to do so already. And that it will be done in a way that does not destroy half of Paris."

"As you say, Your Majesty," Anne muttered, and secretly wondered what else the Cardinal was whispering in her husband's ear. And how much of it pertained to his Queen.

"Anne," Louis said, after a moment, and it did not escape her notice that he so rarely called her Anne, "You seem rather...out of sorts, today."

She blinked. "Forgive me, Your Majesty. I have been feeling rather under the weather, today. A headache, you see."

He sighed. "I am sorry to hear that, my dear. Perhaps, after supper, you would prefer to retire to your chambers."

She nodded gracefully. "Thank you, Your Majesty."

There was a heavy silence after this proclamation, and Anne knew that she had said the wrong thing.

"I just wish that...I might be able to spend some time with my wife," he said, in that high voice that always preceeded a temper. "The Cardinal...claims that there are growing concerns about...us. Our ability to..." He gulped. "In any case, I wish...to spend more time with you, if only you will allow me to do so. Perhaps a walk in the gardens?"

The meal passed in more, awkward silence, the tension between the two monarchs thick in the air.

And all the while, Anne damned the Cardinal to a thousand deaths. There were few in the world she felt compelled to turn such vile thoughts toward, but ones toward the Cardinal came easily enough these days.

Anne swallowed hard, taking another sip of her wine as the servants came to take away their plates. She rather hoped her husband did not see the way she downed it.

"Your Majesty," she said carefully, once she was composed, "I believe that it was only worry which overtook me earlier. I went out amongst the people today and met a misfortunate soul, and cannot take my mind off of him."

The King raised a brow. "Now, Anne, we've discussed this before-"

"His daughter was attacked by...men." She did not dare say the Cardinal's men, for she knew she would lose her husband with those words. She was well aware of the hold the Cardinal had over her husband, and of the hold she had. She would not win that one. "She placed in the Bastille for it, as though it were any fault of hers."

Louis sighed. "Anne, I know you are very compassionate for these people, but I don't think that-"

She knew interrupting him was an ordinarily foolish thing to do, and yet the image of a young girl, trapped away in that awful dungeon because she had refused to please the Red Guard (she had seen it happen before, and, until now, been unable to do anything about it,) would not leave her mind. "Your Majesty, I wonder if I might visit the girl, and free her."

"My Queen, I do not think that would be wise. The Bastille is no place for you, my dear."

She shook her head, stubbornly. "Then I humbly ask that you allow the girl to be released."

He thought on that a moment. "Very well, my dear," he said, voice light and careless. "It shall be done, if it pleases you so."

She dabbed at her mouth with a napkin, and then stood. "Thank you, Your Majesty. I would find a walk in the gardens most invigorating. There are several new arrangements that I had thought to show you, if we had the time."

Louis gave her a genuine smile. "I would be delighted, my Queen."

Anne had always loved exploring gardens, even when she was a little girl in Spain, playing hide and seek with her siblings or being taught what each plant's properties were by her doting father. Her father had always had a love of plants, and all of their uses, from healing to, incidentally, poison, and had dug in the dirt of his gardens almost as much as she.

When she grew older, and found herself married to a king whom she barely knew, and, it felt like, to a country which disliked her, Anne had found the royal gardens to be her sanctuary.

She would often come to them, and her ladies would lose track of her, there, which Anne found pleasing, for it meant that they could not spy on her for a few moments, and, for that small time, she could truly be alone.

Louis had always professed to find her love of gardening, and of wandering through them, a rather strange hobby, for a queen. After all, there were gardeners who dealt with such things, and she need not concern herself with them.

She was happy that, today, at least, he was attempting to understand why she found them so interesting.

"This is an ophrys apifera," Anne said, plucking the little flower up and holding it out to her husband, who stared at it in something akin to fascination.

"It...looks like a bee," Louis said, reaching out almost hesitantly to touch the petals of the flower.

Anne smiled. "The commoners in Spain call it a bee orchid," she explained, "it attracts male bees to pollinate the flower, thus fertilizing it."

Her husband blushed at these words, but did not take the rather thinly veiled hint, now that she was in the position to give it, for what it was. And then, "Spain?"

Anne swallowed hard. "Yes. It is native only to Spain and the southern regions of the Mediterranean," she said, and knew instantly that she had been foolish, to bring him here, to her sanctuary. That she should not have mentioned it's origins.

For a moment, though she knew her husband to be childish rather than cruel, and, at least to her there was a difference, she feared he might tell her she could no longer have such flowers.

Louis let the flower slip from his fingers and fall to the ground. "Show me something else," he said finally, when it appeared that his temper was under control.

Anne pretended not to notice when he stepped on the flower as they moved forward, crushing it underfoot. Pretended the sight did not affect her as much as it did.

And pretended, that night, that it was not the face of a musketeer that she saw in her dreams, but rather the face of her husband.

* * *

It was not a typical day for a hunt, the sky being filled with dark clouds, and Anne would not have come if not for her conversation with the King the night previous. If not for his insistence that he wished to spend more time with her, and her knowing that such would not happen if they did not both make sacrifices to do what the other enjoyed.

For they had little enough in common to take a common interest in anything, other than France, and at least he was making something of an effort.

Some part of her knew that it was hopeless, that any time they spent together would only push them farther apart, yet she knew her husband grew weary of her interests, and that they did not align with his own.

Still, she wished that her husband could enjoy a less...gruesome sport. The needless hunting and murdering of innocent animals, as with human beings, had always revolted her, for Anne could not see the death or depravity of any living creature without feeling some modicum of pity for them, and cringing at the violence, even be they her worst enemy.

"Ah, the thrill of the chase, Captain," Louis called out then, as he left his musket with the man to join Anne back in the tent, where she awaited the news of the hunt. "It is close to divine."

She let out a ladylike sigh and turned back to the table of food that had been provided in the tent, deciding quickly between a truffle and a lemon cake, lest she be called upon to voice her own opinions on hunting.

The Cardinal, who had remained silent in Anne's company while they awaited the return of the king, though this did not bother her overmuch, as neither had much to say to the other, stood abruptly as the King entered, and bowed formally.

Anne managed a small curtesy, a piece of lemon still in her cheek, before she quickly swallowed it down and greeted, "Your Majesty."

Louis sighed contentedly and sank into one of the plush pillows that had been brought out for the hunt. "Ah, Cardinal, you truly cannot understand the beauty of such an endeavour, until you try it for yourself. Hunting is one of God's greatest gifts to man."

The Cardinal smiled thinly. "I am afraid the sport does not agree with my constitution, Your Majesty."

Anne was sure that he hated that it was one of the things that they had in common.

"And you?" Louis turned to his wife, ignoring the Cardinal's words, as he'd heard them a thousand times and still had yet to rescind an invitation for the man to join him on these dreadful hunts. "Are you enjoying yourself?"

He looked so hopeful then that she could not simply turn him down, and lied easily. "Of course, Your Majesty. Tell me, what have you caught?"

Before she had to listen to such horrific tales of Louis' deeds, there was a shot from outside the tent, and she would have sighed in relief had it not sounded so dire.

"Captain!" a musketeer, but not hers.

Louis got to his feet, Anne quickly following, to look out the tent flap, despite the Cardinal's protests that he stay back.

There were riders approaching, two alone followed by a group, not far behind. One was clearly a woman, though her face was hidden beneath a shroud, and the other was a rather unkept man, riding a pace behind her.

"Get the King and Queen to safety!" Treville shouted, and then men were surrounding the tent.

A woman's voice from outside the tent: "I demand to see the King."

Beside her, Louis stiffened, and Anne realized that she recognized the owner of that voice all too well.

The Cardinal gave him a pleading look, but the King ignored it, leaping to his feet and throwing aside the tent flaps in his anger.

The Cardinal and Anne exchanged a long look, for once united in their efforts, as strange as it felt.

"We must deter him from doing anything rash," the Cardinal said then, and Anne nodded. And then both rushed out after him.

The Queen Mother, Marie de Medici, a woman Anne had never thought to see again, knelt in the grass before her son, the Musketeers forming a ring around His Majesty in case she tried something, though she would be fool enough to do so, here.

Of course, she had been foolish enough to return.

Louis stared down at the woman for a few minutes, as if unsure what to do with her. He had banished her from Paris some time ago, and yet...for all that she had wronged him, Anne knew that a part of him still loved the woman who had been his mother, before she became his usurper.

Anne had never loved her, for she had certainly bourne no love for Anne.

"My beloved son," she heard Marie say.

And then came the anger.

"I ordered you never to come back!" Louis cried, and for one terrible moment, Anne thought he might strike his own mother.

And that, of course, made her wonder if he had ever struck a woman.

"Where else should I turn when I am in grave danger?" Marie asked then, eyes wide and pleading.

Anne tried desperately not to roll her own.

"You are banished for life on pain of execution!" Evidently, Louis believed her words even less than Anne. "You tried to steal my throne! And now, I am obliged to cut off your head and place it on a spike for all of Paris to ogle!"

Anne didn't think her husband capable of such a thing, but spoke before he could make up his mind as to whether or not he was. "Come inside, Sire. Leave this to the Cardinal and Captain Treville."

Marie cast her an almost scathing look before turning her attention back to Louis. "Please, I beg of you! On my knees! In the name of the love you once bore me!"

Louis gave her a hard look. "I did love you. And you betrayed me."

The Cardinal stepped forward then. "Your Majesty, the Queen is right. You must withdraw."

"Abandon me now and I'll die!" Marie shouted after him. "Someone is trying to kill me! Please!"

But Louis did not turn around, and Anne followed him quickly, before the woman's pleas could get to her, despite everything Marie de Medici had done.

She had that sort of effect on people, Anne knew.

Louis, back in the safety of the tent, vented his frustrations, and Anne moved away, but listened nonetheless.

"How can she just appear like this? Why does she insist on provoking me?" He paced about the small tent.

"I suggest," the Cardinal began, carefully, "that Your Majesty demonstrates his magnanimity by sparing her life."

Louis glared. "How can I? She was warned. If she ever showed her face in Paris again I would cut off her head!"

The Cardinal sighed, as if lecturing a child.

Actually, this seemed to be his usual tone when speaking with Louis, Anne couldn't help but notice.

"Decapitating one's mother is rarely popular with the people, Sire. It always looks a touch ungrateful."

"The threat she faces must be very real if she's prepared to risk her life by coming here," Anne pointed out, then.

Louis sighed in defeat. "But we will find these assassins, Cardinal? I can't have people running around trying to kill my mother," he said, rather negligebly. "Not unless I tell them to."

The Cardinal dipped his head. "I will see to it, Your Majesty, and that she leaves your presence at once."

Louis smiled. "Thank you, Cardinal. I always know that I can rely on you, in such things."

And, as the Cardinal moved out to banish Marie de Medici from the King's sight once again, and Louis launched into a riveting tale of chasing a fawn, Anne couldn't help but wonder, for the smallest of moments, if Louis was turning his back on the wrong person altogether.

* * *

The reception for the former Queen Mother was one of the strangest Anne had ever experienced.

"I've made many mistakes in my life," Marie allowed. "I regret nothing... except our misunderstanding."

"That is a strange word for treason," Louis muttered irritably.

The former Queen glanced up with glassy eyes. "I was only trying to protect you."

"Was it not you he needed protection from?" Anne demanded, before her husband could fall prey, yet again, to this woman's wills.

"I felt guilty... for burdening you before your years. You were so young when your father died. I had a vision... that I could carry your burden, whilst you learned and grew into a great leader. I was trying to be your mother and your father. I failed at both and I paid for it."

Anne waited in silence, wondering how Marie could possibly believe Louis would listen to her words...

"You didn't fail completely."

And then Louis and Marie were embracing, in a gentle, emotional way that Anne knew her husband would never hold her, and she almost wanted to scream at the sight of it.

She didn't, of course, because she had a certain amount of decorum, after all, and, despite everything, could not bring herself to be jealous of Marie de Medici.

"Oh... Anne... promise me something," Marie lifted her head to Anne above Louis' own. "When you become a mother... you will learn from my misjudgements."

"If I ever become one," Anne couldn't help but mutter bitterly, and then look away when she realized that she'd said this aloud, having not meant to do so.

"Have I spoken out of turn?" Marie asked, glancing between the two of them. "You are young. You have time. When it happens, you will love your son all the more."

And Anne could only hope her words were true.

It was the first time she had ever truly wanted to believe something out of Marie's mouth. She smiled, dipping her head before she excused herself from the other woman's presence, not sure how much more of Marie de Medici she could bring herself to stomach, even if it was for her husband's sake.

When she saw her husband again, he was sitting alone in one of the many parlors of the palace, holding one of the bee orchids that Anne had shown him earlier. Anne blinked, stepping cautiously into the room, unable to gauge his temper.

He glanced up, looking at her with something rather like a hopeless expression, before setting the flower aside.

"Your Majesty, I did not wish to distract you with this from the visit of your mother-" Anne began, voice very soft.

"Visit, Anne? I am beginning to think she will never leave," Louis said with a strained smile. "Though I admit that it pleases me greatly, to see her again."

Anne smiled. "Do you remember the girl we spoke about? The one locked away in the Bastille for no crime of her own?"

He glanced up then. "Anne, you cannot possibly expect me to worry about an unknown girl who is no doubt guilty for her crimes, if she was sent to the Bastille, while my mother is..." he choked up then, refusing to look at Anne. "If you are so concerned, do what you will about it."

Anne sucked in a breath. "You are sure, Your Majesty?" she asked carefully, and he shot her an irritated look.

"Yes, well, I don't want anything to do with it. I'm far too busy with my mother around, after all."

Anne grinned. "Thank you, Louis," she breathed with some relief, and he might have been suspicious for a moment, at her relief for a commoner, if he were not so worried about his mother. As it was, he only spun away, yelling out petulantly that he was going to take a nap as he had a headache and he better not be woken up unless God himself had returned to the Earth.

* * *

She had been expecting (hoping) that the musketeer who arrived at her summons would be Aramis. She hadn't seen him since the Court of Miracles, except for a scant moment during the hunting trip, though her mind had been preoccupied at the time, and there was something about him that drew her to him, like a moth to the flame.

Besides, with the arrival of Marie de Medici, she felt she needed some sort of distraction.

Anne felt a pang of guilt as she wondered whether this girl in the Bastille was a product of true compassion, or merely a distraction. And then another pang of guilt for even thinking such a thing.

She did not recognize the musketeer who came at her summons this day, not beyond that he was vaguely familiar.

"I need you to go to the Bastille for me," she informed him, and watched as the musketeer stiffened, clearly discomfited. She hurried on, "There is a young girl there who has been wrongly imprisoned, and the King, in his Majesty, has signed her release." She held out a rolled up parchment, and waited for the musketeer to take it.

After a moment, he did so.

Anne sighed. She may be a queen, but she had little enough power on her own. Had she told the musketeer to release her prisoner immediately on her own power, he would have done so, but would likely have gone to his Captain to report it, who would have reported it to the King as quickly as possible.

As it was, the musketeer likely thought she had forged the signature, even if she had no reason to do so.

She knew how the people of France thought of her every action, however innocent.

"At once, Your Majesty," was all that he said, giving her a stiff bow before going off to perform his duties.

Anne sighed as she watched him go, and then the Lady Jeanette was there, giving a most shallow curtsey.

"Your Majesty," she greeted, her eyes flitting toward the door and back.

Oh yes, Anne knew why she was nervous. It had been some time since Marie de Medici ruled France, of course, but she still had her loyal supporters here.

And unless she took charge again, something Anne was genuinely nervous might happen if they were not careful, none of said supporters were truly safe. Especially not with Marie here, in Paris.

"If I catch you anywhere near Marie or one of her underlings, I'll have you dismissed immediately," Anne said calmly, attempting not to look overly concerned, though she had a feeling she was doing very poorly. "Is that understood?"

Jeanette gulped audibly. "Your Majesty, I would never-"

"Yes, well, see that you don't. Marie de Medici doesn't have the Cardinal standing behind her, this time."

Jeanette dipped her head. "Of course, Your Majesty."

She made herself scarce then, for which Anne was grateful; she felt something cold and harsh fluttering in her heart, heard words Marie had spoken to her so long ago, reflected in her mind.

Words the woman had spoken in a queer moment of concern, a moment in which Anne had always thought Marie had cared for her, had genuinely wanted to make her understand.

* * *

A musketeer brought the girl to the palace; it was not the same one as before, but she did not recognize this one, either. She had the vague impression that he was a lowly musketeer, not like the ones who usually carried more sensitive missions, and this suspicion was confirmed as he trembled before her.

"The woman you wished brought from the Bastille, Your Majesty," he stuttered out, and Anne gave him a kind smile, hoping to relieve the poor young man.

"Thank you, soldier. You may go and report to Treville, now. I wish to speak to the girl alone, and I doubt she will require a musketeer's protection to find her way home, afterwards."

The musketeer dipped his head, and practically scurried away.

Anne smiled, turning to the young girl whose father had been so concerned for her.

She was not so very young as Anne had been imagining, though she was indeed quite young. And beautiful, Anne suspected, underneath all of the grime that came from imprisonment in the Bastille, and, Anne suspected, the life of a commoner beyond that. She had brunette hair and pretty freckles, and, when she finally relaxed, just a bit, the dazzling smile she sent Anne was full of dimples.

"Do you know who I am?" Anne asked, hoping desperately that the girl had not been too traumatized by her experience to remember her surroundings.

"Yes'm, Your Majesty," and the girl gave her a lopsided curtsey, which Anne stopped her in the midst of, not wanting her to fall over from the lack of energy she seemed to possess.

"What's your name?" she asked the terrified girl, and the brunette looked up in shock, at being addressed by the Queen herself about such a thing.

"I...Jacqueline, Your Majesty," she whispered, and Anne gave her a reassuring smile.

"Hello, Jacqueline. You are safe now," she said, hoping her words sounded more reassuring than she felt. Next came the words that would undoubtedly get back to the Cardinal, and then her husband, but, at the moment, Anne found that she didn't care. "And for the ordeal you have just been through, I would like to give you a gift, although I know that it cannot possibly make up for all of the wrongs you have suffered."

Jacqueline let out a sound rather like a squeal. "I would be...I...Why, Your Majesty?"

Anne lifted a brow, before holding out the bag of coins, feeling oddly like she had the day she had gone to the prison and released many prisoners, giving them some spare coins to help them in their new lives.

Like it wasn't at all enough.

Jacqueline took a deep breath. "I...yes, thank you...Your Majesty."

Anne smiled. The girl left then, escorted it out by one of Anne's ladies, although it could just as easily have been done by a servant, and Anne thought she would never see the girl again.

* * *

Marie de Medici had never been a friend to Anne. When she first arrived in France, Marie greeted her with coldness and, sometimes, open hostility, refusing to allow her her rights as queen and forcing her to the sidelines almost immediately in an attempt to keep herself in power.

Anne, who had been close with her own mother until the woman died, and then close with her father, who doted on her constantly, felt very much alone at French court, and her rather cold relationship with Louis did not help, in that regard.

It could even be said that Marie was the reason for Anne and Louis' rocky relationship to begin with. She certainly encouraged the distance between them; an heir from the young King would render her position as regent unreasonable.

It was not until Richelieu stepped in and helped the King stage a coup against his own mother, a coup that Anne had not been part of, considering how little trust the Cardinal placed in her, that Anne finally felt, for the most part, at home in France.

Like it was her country. Like she really was the Queen.

So Anne was uncertain how to feel about Marie's sudden change of heart, in her return. The way she acted pleased to see Anne, as though they were old friends, and attempted to comfort her after learning that there was little chance of an heir, at this point.

It did not bode well with her, at any rate.

"You said that there were...difficulties, in having a child of your own," Marie said presently, and Anne almost flinched.

"I...yes, unfortunately." She did not elaborate. She did not dare.

"There are ways to...induce a child," Marie said, glancing around Anne's chambers - Marie's old ones, she realized - in something similar to distaste, though she quickly schooled her expression when she caught Anne watching. "If you would like my advice."

Anne blushed. She was fairly certain that any advice from Marie would have the opposite effect, but she didn't dare say so. "Certainly," she said instead, giving Jacqueline a soft smile when the woman looked up in surprise.

Marie smirked. "I have many tricks; after all, the House of Bourbon has been known in the past for its...infertile seed."

Anne glanced up in surprise. "You mean that the fault may not rest with me?" she asked, and hated the way her cheeks flamed at the very thought.

Marie just smiled again, enigmatic, and Anne knew then that she was just as dangerous as she had always been.

"You mustn't allow others to catch you thinking such, my dear girl," she said, like a mother to a daughter, spilling secrets, as she reached over and took both Anne's hands in her own. "They would say that the fault always lies with an infertile womb, but I have certainly found otherwise."

She had to confess, she had never thought of that. "Then what did you do to...get around that?" she asked, hating the eagerness to know in her own voice.

Marie smiled. "There are certain herbs that, when applied in tea enough times during the moon cycle, can handle such things. Just as there are herbs for other such purposes."

Anne swallowed hard. "That sort of purpose would be lost on me, I'm afraid," she said softly. After eight years of trying so hard for a child, why would Marie even think that she would wish to...?

"There are many queens who have, in the past, my dear," Marie said, almost gently now, but Anne did not mistake the lilting softness of her voice. "Having multiple heirs can be...detrimental, in many cases. There will always be princes vying for a throne."

And it seemed to Anne that they were no longer thinking of a hypothetical child.

Anne bit her lip. "I don't want to speak on this again," she said softly, though her voice shook. "But I thank you for your words."

And Marie affected a look of serene ageeableness. "Of course, my dear. Tell me, how are you getting on with Lady Angeline of Anjou? She was a right witch while I was here, and I doubt very much that she has changed."

Anne was not fooled by her overly cheerful tone, but decided to humor her anyway.

* * *

"She's up to something," Anne said softly, and then hissed as Jeanette reached a snag in her hair, not entirely convinced, despite the woman's muted apologies, that it had not been done on purpose.

"It's all right, Jeanette. I'll survive it."

The woman's lips twitched. Then, "Who's up to something, m'lady?" she asked, though Anne found it doubtful that she could not have already known.

Anne sighed. "The Queen Mother. Her return to Court was rather...sudden."

"She thought someone was trying to kill her, m'lady, and came to His Majesty for shelter," Jeanette corrected her softly, and Anne only frowned at this.

"Yes, so she said," she muttered.

Anne bit her lip, before remembering that this was a test, and that Jacqueline had no reason to be loyal to Marie de Medici, as all of Anne's ladies had once been, and not to the King, as far as whispering secrets. Besides, she was nothing more than a peasant, and there would be few who approached her for that purpose, at any rate. Anne was safe with her. For now.

She thought about the way the woman had prostrated herself before Louis, forgetting her pride in her fear and begging, as though Marie de Medici's one prized possession nowadays was not her pride. She thought of the way Marie had been so helpful, in offering her suggestions...

Anne was very sure that, whatever concoction Marie suggested would merely hinder her ability to give Louis a child all the more.

"I've learned never to believe a word that woman says." She wasn't entirely sure she'd made the right decision, in trusting the girl to keep silent, until she said this.

Jeanette, after a moment's hesitation, as if wondering whether she would be in trouble for learning such sensitive information, quietly went back to combing her hair.

Anne let out a long sigh, not wanting to think about whatever it was Marie was plotting.

"Tell me about your life, before you came here," she said suddenly, and Jeanette blinked at her.

"My lady?"

"Tell me what it was like, to be the Comtess Jeanette, before you were a lady to the Queen," Anne commanded then, and, after a stuttering moment's hesitation, Jeanette opened her mouth.

* * *

It was a relief when Marie de Medici left to go back where she came from, wherever that actually was, be it Hell or somewhere still on Earth, her righthand arrested for treason and the world not so complicated as it had been while she was present.

Anne suspected that there was far more to the Queen Mother's departure than simply that her attacker had been apprehended, and, though her husband the King was apt to believe the Cardinal and Treville when they said who had been her attacker, Anne did not miss the pain in Marie's eyes, pain that was not simply from betrayal.

The Queen Mother left with little fanfare and much silence, apparently as eager to leave French Court as she had been to return to it.

"Your Majesty was most kind to extend your hospitality to me and mine while I was under threat," the woman told her son, taking both of Louis' hands in his and kissing each of them.

Louis cleared his throat, clearly uncomfortable. "Yes, well...I'm simply glad that things turned out and we were able to find the traitor."

Marie's eyes took a far away look, and Anne wondered if she had loved the man who was killed. "Yes, as am I, of course."

Louis displayed a rare moment of concern then. "Where will you go?" he asked, voice gentle, and Marie stiffened at the sound of it, cocking her head as if that voice had revealed something terribly important to her.

"I..." Anne wondered if her son's concern had truly startled Marie so much, if she had been blind to the fact that, horrible mother notwithstanding, she was in fact still his mother. "I was thinking of going to the old Valois fortress, in the country."

Beside them, the Cardinal stiffened, clearly seeing Marie's intent as some sort of threat, but Marie only smiled plaintatively. "If that is all right with Your Most Gracious Majesty."

Louis frowned. "I don't know why it should not be. You will be safe there, out of the way of any assassins."

"Yes," Marie murmured softly. "Out of the way."

She nodded once to Anne, not bothering to speak with her, Anne thought, now that she had no need of cultivating the French Queen's sympathy, and Anne was rather relieved. She did not think she would have been able to come up with a suitable farewell, one which did not make it sound as though she were gloating, for, it was clear that, whatever Marie's plotting had been, it had come to nothing. Marie faltered, and then dipped her head to the Cardinal, before curtseying once more before her son the King and then turning on her heel, making her way toward the golden carriage awaiting her at the end of the drive.

Anne watched her go with something like bemusement, and then followed the King as he abruptly turned on his heel, trying valiantly, she thought, not to make his emotions known to everyone within sight.

The Cardinal walked a step or two behind them, looking out of place in his dark robes, beside their light colors, as though he was mourning the moment, rather than just as relieved as Anne was to see Marie de Medici go.

Louis did not stop walking for some time, and Anne wondered if he was going to tour the whole palace before he finally stopped, and drag the rest of them about with him.

Eventually, though, he did stop, just outside rooms that had once been very familiar to Anne.

"Leave us," he said softly, and the Cardinal and their attendants did so immediately.

Louis hesitated then, taking a deep, shuddering breath, before pushing open a door that had been left closed for many years.

Marie de Medici's chambers were just as they had been left for the last few years since her removal from power and the castle; almost bare, with the bed sheets still turned down from when Marie had been dragged from the room, a streak of red on the otherwise periwinkle wall by the door, where she had scratched at it in her attempts to gain her freedom from her guards.

Anne moved forward, forgetting about Louis for a long moment, seeing nothing but this room as it had once been; terrifying and imposing, and utterly real. Marie, sitting on the sofa, looking up with a quiet smirk as Anne entered the room, setting aside her knitting in attempt to appear completely focused on whatever Anne wished to say.

 _"I wish to see my husband."_

 _"Whatever for, my dear? Are your quarters unsuitable? Is something amiss?"_

 _"He is my husband. We were wed in holy matrimony, and you do not have the right to keep me from him."_

 _Marie had raised a cool eyebrow. "My dear child, I am not keeping him from you. He is your husband, and the King of this country. If he wished to see you, he would see you. However, if you wish to ask me something, you may."_

"She's gone," Louis whispered hoarsely, sinking down into the sofa beside Anne, where she had sat without even realizing she had done so. "She's really gone."

Anne blinked at him, lifted a hand to place it over his own, and then paused in midair, unsure.

But then Louis was leaning into her touch, and Anne let her hand fall over his for just a moment.

* * *

Porthos decided that Aramis could not possibly be thinking of entering the priesthood, not with the way he held that child and gazed at his mother as though they were everything he had ever desired from life.

And something about that sight saddened Porthos, though he couldn't entirely say why. Perhaps it was the thought that Aramis always wanted what he could not, in his current state of life, have.

Perhaps it was the thought that Aramis might have made a good father.

"What more could you want from me? Why drag me here now?"

Aramis put up a placating hand. "I know you've endured hell. I'm sorry you had to suffer so terrible a blow. I should apologise. I should have told you the truth. But if you hadn't been convincing as a grieving mother they would have seen right through it. This was the only way I could see you and Henry having any kind of life together."

"What life?" Agnes asked bitterly, sounding more tired than anything.

The baby in Aramis' arms gurgled, and Agnes' eyes widened in shock. "Henry?" she whispered, the word hesitant and soft, as if she didn't dare to believe it. "Henry? Oh...Oh, Henry! Henry! Oh..." and then she broke down, sobbing.

Aramis awkwardly stepped forward, as if to comfort her, and then seemed to think better of it, reaching for the golden cross around his neck.

Porthos smiled faintly; it was not a happy smile.

Beside him, Constance looked ready to start crying herself, and D'Artagnan shot her a sympathetic glance. "You didn't want to give him back, did you?"

Constance sniffed. "Was it that obvious?"

Porthos smirked. "It's not every day you get to save the King's life."

Athos grunted at that. "He'll never be King." And then, almost grudgingly, "But he'll be happier than the man who is."

And if Porthos felt some ominous chill, far colder than the light countryside air, pour over him at those words, he struggled not to show it.


	3. A Rebellious Woman

Anne had never liked Ninon de Larroque.

Most of the women of higher education in Paris did not, for they thought her ideas disturbing and her wish to teach peasant girls an independence from their husbands fool hardy and a waste of time, though Anne suspected that they were merely jealous of the woman's freedoms, her ability to be independent of any husband, regardless of her actions.

This was not the reason that Anne did not like Ninon.

In Ninon's defense, it was not the woman's fault at all. In fact, Anne lauded her work amongst the poor, was perhaps a bit jealous that she was able to do so much, unmarried and wealthy as she was. It was a power that even Anne did not have.

When Anne had first arrived in France, barely a woman yet, on the cusp of marriage to a boy she had met only once before, she had thought she would have that power. Had thought she would be able to do good things for the world, as her father had once taught her to think. Had thought that she would have some sway.

It had turned out, in those first grueling years at Parisian Court, that Anne did not even have the power to invite visitors to the palace without the permission of both her husband and the Queen Mother, the latter of whom was the more important in the giving of such permission.

She had been, in effect, a prisoner in a very fine cage. She could not have asked for a finer cage, she knew, for her every wish that did not go above ordering about servants assigned to her by the Queen Mother or eating truffles to her heart's content or wandering the gardens was met immediately.

But there had been days when she was reminded with stunning clarity of her status, that she was nothing more than a prisoner or, in finer terms, a guest, in French Court, and did not truly belong here. The Queen Mother made sure that those days were frequent enough that Anne could never quite forget it, for she much resented Anne's presence at Court, Anne's ability to sway her son to any thought that wasn't of Marie's own making.

And Ninon, from the moment Anne had arrived at French Court and perhaps long before, had always possessed that freedom. She was born of wealth, and a particularly doting father, as Anne had been, and yet the difference was, that Ninon had been able to keep it all, while Anne had not.

And Louis had loved her from the moment he laid eyes on her and Ninon opened her pretty mouth and spoke of politics, while Anne was scorned for doing the very same, on account of her being "irredeemably Spanish."

She knew that it was unfair. That Ninon was a woman renowned for her work with charity, and was always kind. And yet.

Anne sighed, taking her mind away from such uncharitable thoughts and glancing at her maidservant, as Caroline pulled her hair up into an elaborate style that was all the rage in the city these days. Marie de Medici had worn it to her son's name day, and so all the women of Paris were expected to want to wear it.

Including Anne, who privately thought that, rather than copying the styles of a woman who had no love for her, she should have been setting her own.

"What is this for?" she asked Caroline, stilling the girl's hand in her hair.

Caroline was a sweet girl, helpful and kind, but she was sometimes silly, a little too silly, Anne thought, and did not seem to understand the games played at court. It was simultaneously refreshing and infuriating.

"A fete," Caroline said excitedly, giving Anne's shoulders a little squeeze.

Caroline was little more than a girl, gifted to her by an exuberate duke who had nothing more to gain from doing so, whereas most of Anne's ladies had been appointed by the Queen Mother and had little love for her, and much love for any communications she had with her brother, back home.

Anne sighed. "Yes, a fete. In celebration of so many years' peace," she said softly. "So many nobles gathered together in one place, and they think the night should be celebrating peace."

Caroline snorted in a very unladylike fashion. "Yes, well, peace tonight, civil war tomorrow. You know how it is."

Anne glanced at her reflection in the mirror; Caroline was an exceptional hairdresser, and yet, Anne could not bring herself to feel any real emotion about it. "Yes," she murmured softly. "Yes, I know how it is."

She had already heard the rumors of Marie de Medici's plans, plans that she could not bring to the King's attention because he would never believe her, plans that she was not even sure were fully formed.

She did not know how long the peace would last, and so she supposed it was only right to celebrate it now.

Anne paused. "Why was I not informed of a fete, tonight, Caroline?" she asked calmly, not wanting her only friend at French Court to think that she was angry with her.

It should have been Anne who was planning any such fetes in the palace, after all, as was her duty as queen.

Caroline stiffened anyway. "The Queen Mother did not think it prudent, my lady."

Anne was not particularly surprised. It was merely another way of undermining her daughter-in-law's authority, after all. "Your Majesty," she corrected the girl, and Caroline flushed.

"Of course. Your Majesty. But don't worry; I'll have you ready in no time at all. The fete is not for a little while longer, and you shall be fit as a queen, by then."

Anne bit her lip, not bothering to remind the girl that she was a queen.

The fete was just as wretched as Anne had imagined it would be. In Spain, she had loved the balls that her father had thrown, and then her brother, but here, she often found herself growing overwhelmed easily. She did not know the people of her new court, for her mother-in-law had never allowed her to get to know them, and even here, Marie dominated the ball room, moving from noble to noble, and monopolizing her son's time on the dance floor whenever Anne looked as though she might approach him.

"Your Majesty," a voice said then, and Anne turned to see the Cardinal standing before her, smiling coolly, in that way that he always did.

She had steered clear of the Cardinal so far, in her time here, for she knew that he was a man of cunning, and would no doubt attempt to use her ignorance against her, and though she was pious, she feared that she might not be pious enough for France's Cardinal.

"Cardinal Richelieu," she said quietly, curtseying as he bowed to her.

"I have not seen you in some time, Your Majesty. Perhaps you would like to come and confess, tomorrow?"

Anne found her mind drifting from the conversation, as she glanced toward her husband, dancing with his mother once more. The Cardinal followed her gaze. "I do believe that we might have more to discuss than you might think."

She glanced up at him. "Are you implying that I have been untruthful in my confessions, Cardinal? I can assure you that nothing is further from the truth."

He smiled gently, as though she were a child. She supposed that, in his mind, she was. "Nothing could be further from my mind, Your Majesty. In fact, I was referring to another sort of discussion," he said, and was it her imagination, or did he nod toward the Queen Mother? "One still best had behind closed doors."

Anne swallowed hard, watching as her husband spun his mother around, smiling a smile that was never reserved for her. "I do not like to get involved in anything that cannot be said out in the open, Cardinal," she said shortly. "I love my husband, and know my duty to him."

The Cardinal raised a brow. "This discussion would not be going against your husband, Your Majesty. And...I think that you would like it all the same."

Anne stared at him. "Why the sudden interest in such a conversation, Cardinal? I cannot remember a time when you sought my attentions before," she said calmly, smiling at the several nobles who were glancing their way in interest.

The Cardinal shrugged. "Perhaps I have...seen the light, as it were. I do believe that both of us could benefit from such a discussion." A pause. "It should be you out there, dancing your heart away like a carefree youth."

She turned to him, about to say something roiling, when she caught the look on his face. It was not one of sympathy, nor one of malice. Merely, his face was entirely blank, and Anne swallowed at the sight of it.

"Your Majesty," the Cardinal said then, glancing at her with a look that could only be described as interest, though she knew that he had never shown interest in her before. Perhaps because he doubted her to be anything more than a spineless Spanish flower.

She was not sure whether this look worried her or not.

"Cardinal," Anne dipped her head to him, and he nodded to her, and Anne took the next moment to escape out of one of the side doors of the ball room, into the royal garden.

The royal gardens were Anne's sanctuary. She had come here often, during the tenuous reign of Marie de Medici as her son's regent, to simply walk about where she would not be scrutinized by the aristocracy, or subjected to Marie's taunts. The woman did not like these gardens, for some reason, and rarely ever came here. Louis was a sickly child when they were younger, and rarely stepped out of doors.

And so, Anne had come here very often indeed.

She had not expected Ninon to be out here in the royal garden that had become Anne's sanctuary over the years, and certainly had not expected her to be here alone, and clearly wishing to speak with Anne.

"You are not enjoying the fete?" Anne asked, keeping her voice deceptively mild.

Ninon looked up, smiled at her. "I do not find the chance to ogle men and be ogled in turn very alluring, no."

Anne raised an eyebrow, moving closer, and, despite herself, finding this woman's honesty rather refreshing, after spending so long around backstabbing, boot licking ladies' maids. "Why did you come, then?"

Ninon gave her a pointed look. "Because I received a royal invitation, and to do otherwise without having a suitable sickness to excuse me, an excuse I have used the last few dozen times, would have looked bad."

Anne felt a surprised laugh bubble up at those words, and Ninon glanced at her with equal surprise, as if she had expected some sort of reprimand for her words, rather than laughter.

They fell into a careful silence then, Anne crossing her arms and glancing at the roses wrapped around the seat of the bench. It was Ninon who broke the silence.

"You are jealous of me," Ninon said, her voice soft, words slow. As Anne had never imagined this particular woman as slow, she had to wonder at the confusion lighting the woman's eyes. "Because of the sway I have with the King?"

Anne glanced at her. "Do you blame me?" she asked. "Surely you have heard of my own relationship with the king. Why should I not begrudge you yours?"

Ninon raised a brow, reaching out a hand as though to comfort her, and then letting it drop back down to her side. "I have no wish to cause you any undue pain, Your Majesty. I do understand you've suffered enough, thus far."

Anne blinked at her. "What do you know of what I've suffered?" she demanded, and then reminded herself that queens did not demand things.

Ninon smiled, as if she could see Anne's very thoughts, and, though Anne had never once believed the whispered rumors that Ninon was a witch, she shivered, pulling her shawl a bit more tightly around her shoulders. "Only what I've heard, of course. And one does tend to hear royal gossip, regardless of how they try to remove themselves from it."

Anne flushed. "Gossip is not always true."

Ninon gave her a look that was almost pitying, and Anne debated getting up and leaving right then, for she could not bear such pity on this beautiful woman's features.

"Yes," Ninon said calmly, glancing out at the flowers of Anne's garden.

"Is it true, what they say? That you will not marry because you are not...attracted to the male sex?" Anne blurted out, and Ninon laughed; it sounded like trickling water.

"No," she answered, with a little shrug. "It is not true. I would love a man and be loved in turn, but..." she shook her head. "I have never met such a man."

And, though she knew it was ridiculous, Anne felt a little flare of defensiveness, at those words. "And do you judge all women who do not have the opportunity to do the same?"

Ninon smiled, though there was a touch of sad understanding in her eyes. Anne had the odd apprehension that it was in fact pity, and felt her skin crawl. "Of course I do not."

Anne flushed, feeling like a chastised child, but her thoughts were turned toward uncharitable memories today, and she had no wish to pretend to be civil, especially with someone who felt little need to adhere to the rules of courtly society in turn. "Forgive me. I shouldn't have said such a thing. The...atmosphere of the party has gotten to me."

Ninon's lips quirked. "I can understand that."

Anne lifted her eyes, meeting the other woman's. "You are not what I was expecting, Lady de Larroque."

"If it means anything to you, Your Majesty, I think you are one of the braver women I have ever met. I was not expecting that, either," Ninon whispered, yet, when Anne turned around, she was gone.

* * *

It had been some time since Anne had spoken to Ninon since then, for the other woman preferred to spend her time locked away in her lavish home, rather than at Court, and, when she was there, the king often took up most of the woman's time, walking through the gardens with her and talking of things he would never trust to mention before Anne, and then rhapsodizing over the woman's beauty and what a pity it was that she had not found herself a husband.

Anne had, in truth, not thought of the woman more than she could help since their strange conversation in the garden, and only thought of her now as their carriage passed by the woman's home and Louis mentioned that it had been some time since the woman had graced them with her presence at Court.

"I am sure that she has a good excuse, Your Majesty," Anne said quietly, glancing out the window of the carriage that was being shared with the Cardinal, hardly wanting to look at him instead.

The King sighed. "I do so miss her wild opinions. They are often very amusing."

Anne barely bit back a sigh herself, at those words.

"Make way! Make way for the King and Queen of France!"

"It is so tedious that we have to wade through so many peasants," Louis muttered beside her, and Anne glanced at him, giving a noncommittal grunt as the carriage sloughed through another hole in the road.

Across from them in the carriage, the Cardinal nodded. "One of the many burdens of your station, Your Majesty," he murmured, and Anne gave him a long look, before smiling.

She knew that the Cardinal would rather the King stay shut up in his palace as much as possible; it would give him free reign over the streets of Paris, and perhaps over the countryside as well.

It had been an ongoing war between the two of them, him to keep the King shut away and Anne to bring him out to see his people as much as possible, so that he could know the country he lived in and ruled over.

The alliance between the two of them, long ago in the time when they had deposed Marie de Medici was long past.

"They merely wish to see their rulers and know that we are well," she said softly, touching Louis' arm gently, gratified when he did not pull away from the Cardinal. "I do not see the harm in it."

"The harm," Louis grumbled, throwing off her touch, "Is that we will never make it back to the palace before noon, at this rate."

"Your Majesty!" voices called out from beyond their carriage, and Anne considered sticking her hand out and waving, but remembered the recent threat to her life, how closely she had come to death, and decided it would be best not to do so.

"Please, Your Majesty!" another voice, this one higher than the others, and Anne closed her eyes against the sound, a stab of pity running through her.

Often, their subjects came before the King and Queen, knowing that an audience would gain them much more than their local magistrate, a man who fattened himself on wine and whores, ever would. But the people should have known that their king was not one to stand on ceremony before them, and that he had little interest in their private affairs.

They might have saved themselves the bother of coming out on this blisteringly hot day and begging to a silent carriage, so many of them, lining the streets like excited children, just wanting a glimpse of their king, a glimpse of their opening.

Anne saw the girl running toward her before even the guards did, exchanging a nervous look with Caroline before suddenly the girl was there, stepping up and leaning against the carriage, her eyes wide.

She looked so young.

"Your Majes-" she cried out, and then she went down, her dress ripping loudly despite the din as she fell beneath the wheels of the carriage.

The Cardinal grunted in surprise as Anne lifted a hand to cover her mouth, horrified.

The carriage pulled to a stop as the loud screams of the people filled the air, and Anne felt Louis squeezing her hand, wondered if it was out of an attempt to give comfort or receive it.

Anne leaned out of the carriage, gasping when she saw the mangled mess that had been a young girl with pretty wide eyes, and jerked her vision away from the remains, unable to bear the sight.

"Stay there, Your Majesty!" she heard Treville shout as he rode up to her. "It's not safe." And then, to the carriage driver, "Ride on! Now!"

And, as they rode away, Anne couldn't help but glance back once more.

"Dear God!" Louis cried out next to her, reaching out and squeezing Anne's hand. "How could our guards have allowed that peasant to get so close?" he demanded, and Anne bit her lip. "She could have easily killed me. Imagine, a peasant child destroying the King of France. I will not abide these rides any longer Cardinal. You will see to arrangements that they are more discreet."

The Cardinal nodded, looking rather shaken. "Of course, Your Majesty."

"Perhaps she did not have so evil a motive in mind, Your Majesty," Anne said carefully, and Louis glanced at her irritably.

"My love, you are always so disposed to think kindly of others," he said, taking her hand and kissing it, in a way that told her she would not win such an argument, if she tried to take it up.

Anne sighed. "Of course, Your Majesty. I am sure that you are right."

The ride back to the palace was filled with Louis' anger at being targeted in broad daylight, and the Cardinal's assurances that he would track down this culprit and ensure that such a thing never happened again, if Treville was so incapable of doing so himself.

Anne stayed silent during that conversation, knowing that her input was not particularly welcome, and unable to stop thinking of the girl, in any case.

When they reached the palace, Louis wasted no time in interrogating Captain Treville, once he arrived, looking rather grim and holding a letter.

"Was it an attempt on my life?" Louis demanded, voice barely higher than a whisper, sounding shaken. And he was, Anne knew; the number of attempts on their life recently had become too many for her comfort, and it seemed they were only increasing in number, despite the extra protections of the musketeers and the Cardinal's Red Guards.

"The young woman merely wanted to present this petition to the Queen."

"To me?" Anne repeated, genuinely confused. "Why?"

The Cardinal snatched the petition from Treville's hands, and Anne held back a huff of indignation, remembering that the Cardinal often read her letters, regardless of whether or not she was present to see him do so.

"She was an orphan from a humble background. It has something to do with a plea for women's education."

"If she was an illiterate orphan, she could not have written this. It is misguided, but not unintelligent."

"You don't favour women's education?"

"I admire learning wherever it is to be found, but this amounts to an attack on the authority of church and state."

The doors to the library slammed open behind them, a woman's loud voice shouting, "Stay out of my way! I will address the King."

Anne recognized the voice immediately, even before she saw Ninon de Larroque bodily push one of the guards out of her way when he attempted to make a grab for her.

"Comtesse de Larroque!" Louis smiled, just as he always did when her name was mentioned. "To what do I owe the honour?"

Ninon composed herself then, giving the King a dazzling smile that Anne found rather cool, and curtseying. "Your Majesty. I want to know why this tragedy happened. If your guards are to blame, I want them punished."

"You knew this lunatic?" the Cardinal asked, voice filled with derision.

"She was sane as you or me." She paused. "Well, me, anyway." And Anne couldn't quite hide her smile, at that. "She was the daughter of a servant of mine. She had wits and ability. I decided to give her an education."

"A ser...servant girl? An education?" Louis shook his head, bemused. "Sorry, I don't follow."

"It seems you educated her too well. She wrote this and then was killed trying to give it to the Queen," Cardinal interrupted.

"Don't be ridiculous. She didn't write it. I did."

"Did you tell this young girl to give her petition to the Queen?" Treville asked.

"I merely told her that the Queen is a woman of wisdom and kindness, who might sympathise with our cause," Ninon nodded to Anne.

Anne blinked, genuinely surprised by the praise. "I shall read it," she promised.

"Walk with me in the garden, Ninon," Louis said then, smiling. I've often found your company so stimulating."

"Another time, Your Majesty. I am too distressed at present." And then she turned on her heel and walked from the room, leaving the three men and the queen staring after her in bemusement.

"Did she just refuse my company?" Louis asked finally.

"I believe she did, sire," Anne said, reluctantly impressed.

"Is that allowed?" He didn't seem angry, only amused.

"Apparently, the Comtesse de Larroque believes herself above the normal laws and conventions of society." There was an ominous tone to his voice as the Cardinal said the words, and Anne blinked, her confusion over Ninon gone, replaced with a new subject.

The Cardinal hadn't had any real plots in some time, though she suspected that he'd been up to something suspicious while Marie de Medici was here. But Anne was not a fool; she knew that he was always plotting about one thing or another.

* * *

"Your Majesty!" the girl screamed, reaching an arm out towards her. "Please, Your Majest-"

The carriage ran over the girl's feet then, dragging her down from the window where she'd been perched, and Anne screamed as an overwhelming amount of blood splattered against her clothes, her hair-

Anne woke in her own bed, drenched in sweat, one of her ladies, Caroline, rushing forward to dab a cloth against her forehead and offer her some water.

"Are you all right, my lady?" she asked quietly, and Anne blinked at her, before her eyes cleared and she remembered where she was.

"I..."

She thought of the girl, the one whom she had helped from the Bastille, wondered if she was happy now, back with her family. She could just have easily been killed by now, in some other trivial accident.

"I'd like some water," she told Caroline softly, sitting up and taking a sip of the proffered gift a moment later, breathing under control once more.

Caroline hovered near her bed, and Anne doubted that the girl was eager to go back to sleep on her blanket on the floor, as she had taken that position several times in the last week.

It was supposed to be an honor, to lay in the Queen's bedchambers and protect her should she need it, but Anne's ladies seemed to find it to be far more troublesome than most ladies in waiting did.

"Would...would you like to talk about it, my lady?" Caroline asked sweetly, and Anne pinched the bridge of her nose.

"No, Caroline, I would not. Go back to sleep." She patted the space beside her on the bed; it was not as though the King would come into her chambers now, so there was no need for the girl to sleep on the floor while the spot went to waste, surely.

Caroline's eyes widened, but she crawled into the bed beside the Queen, stiff as a board, and a few moments later, Anne heard her steady, unlabored breathing, wishing that she could find such peace so quickly.

She did not find it, that night, lying awake long after her lady had fallen asleep, and still awake when her lady sat up in the morning, declaring that they were now tardy and scrambling to ready both herself and her queen.

"Tardy?" Anne repeated. "I was not aware that we had any pressing engagements today." She doubted very much that, after the excitement of yesterday, the king would allow any.

"The Father from Rome has requested an audience with your majesties," Caroline said quietly, helping Anne into her dress. "The King wishes to get it over with as soon as possible."

Anne smiled. "That certainly sounds like the King. Any idea what he wants?"

Caroline's eyes widened as she pulled the straps tight to Anne's gown. "I do not know, my lady. He has been very quiet about his purpose here; the servant sent to clean his rooms was turned away, as was the girl to bring him his supper last night."

Anne sighed. "Well, thank you anyway, Caroline."

"Of course, Your Majesty. I will...try to find out anything else."

Anne waved a hand. "There is no need for that. He has been sent by the Vatican, and I doubt it would look good for us, to have you sniffing about his affairs."

Caroline colored at her words. "Of course, Your Majesty. Shall you have something to break your fast, before going to greet him with the King?"

Anne hesitated. "Some of that new coffee they've brought would not go amiss," she said finally, and Caroline's eyes lit up, for the girl knew that Anne would allow her some of the chocolate that would otherwise be melted into the strange, bitter drink.

Anne smiled, wishing that she herself was so easily appeased as she sipped the hot drink, the cocoa managing to sweeten the otherwise bitter and strange drink that had so recently been introduced to her.

When she was done, she stood, allowing Caroline and another of her ladies to escort her to the throne room, where the king was already waiting, pacing a little before his face lit up at the sight of her.

Now, that was a strange sight indeed.

"Your Majesty," she said, walking forward and curtseying to him, her ladies making themselves scarce.

The King nodded to her, before sitting down on his throne, without scarcely a 'good morning.' Anne sighed, following him, and wishing that she understood her husband better.

Two musketeers flanked the man when the Father was brought in, escorted by Rochefort, though he walked as though they were his servants, rather than his guards, and Anne thought he might believe just that. He looked like a rodent, a pompous little man who's eyes never even met hers as he gave the king what could scarcely be called a bow.

"Luca," she heard the Cardinal address the man, but couldn't quite bring herself to pay attention, for her eyes were drawn to the musketeer on the priest's left. "I am delighted to see you. Why didn't Rome inform us you were coming?"

Aramis, her musketeer. It had been some time since she had seen him, but he looked well.

"This is an informal visit, Your Eminence."

She had never seen anyone quite brush aside the Cardinal like that, and something about it gave her a little thrill of pleasure, however guilty she felt for it.

And then she found herself meeting Aramis' eyes, and quickly glanced down at her hands.

"Your Majesty," the priest bowed, and Anne looked him over, frowning in confusion. She thought she recognized him, and yet she could not say from where.

The Cardinal spoke before she had figured it out. "Father Luca Sastini." He turned to the King and Queen. "Luca and I are old friends. We were at the seminary together."

"Sastini?" Louis repeated, apparently recognizing the name before she did. "Aren't you that Jesuit priest who wrote that terrible pamphlet?"

Sastini gave an awkward smile, and Anne bit the inside of her cheek, suddenly remembering all too clearly. Louis had ranted about it for some weeks after it had reached France.

"What did it say?"

"Well, if I remember correctly, it was an argument for the Pope's absolute authority over national rulers in all matters, both spiritual and temporal. Any leader who defied him could be legally overthrown and even killed, with the papal blessing."

"That's the one." Louis snapped his fingers, stepping down from the throne to frown at Sastini. "It's just as well my people can't read, or they might get ideas."

"My apologies for any offence," Sastini said gruffly.

"I trust your...time in Paris will be pleasant, however _brief_ it may be."

It was a dismissal, and the Cardinal quickly spoke up.

"Your Majesty, a young woman, Fleur Baudin, has gone missing," Treville announced then, "a friend of the girl who died this morning. We have reason to believe the Comtesse de Larroque may know something of her whereabouts."

Louis blinked at him, sitting down.

"What makes you say so?" Anne asked.

"She regularly attended the Comtesse's salon, and seems enthralled by her."

"That's very, very shocking. We can't have the Comtesse abducting young women and spiriting them away to her boudoir," Louis murmured, though Anne could tell from the way his lips twitched that he was only joking.

Then, when it seemed no one else had found his humor, "Whatever are you implying, Cardinal?"

"There have been ugly rumours, Your Majesty. It's all scurrilous nonsense, I'm sure."

Anne's eyes narrowed. It was not like the Cardinal, after all, to become unduly concerned with the welfare of random peasant women. He had reprimanded her for it often enough, much preferring the bigger picture.

She just did not see how a young peasant woman fit into any picture of the Cardinal's creation, but she did see how Ninon de Larroque might.

"And Ninon is so very pretty, I could listen to her nonsense all day," Louis murmured dreamily, and Anne bit back a sigh. "Handle the matter discreetly. The Comtesse is from a very distinguished family. I don't want her upset unduly."

The Cardinal dipped his head. "You are too generous, Your Majesty."

"Yes, I know." Louis sighed. "It is a weakness."

* * *

Anne had heard about the attack on the Comtesse's home the night prior, had hardly been able to believe her ears when Treville reported it to the King, and the Cardinal explained that there was strong evidence against her of...corrupt behavior, and that the girl they were looking for, Fleur, was there.

She could not quite believe that it had come this far.

"Four young women. In their nightwear. I can only speculate as to the horrors they have endured."

"The girls claim they were not coerced," Treville pointed out.

"Then why lock them in a secret chamber?" The Cardinal countered, features tightening.

Anne watched him carefully.

Whatever the Cardinal was doing, he was desperate.

"What will happen to these poor children?" Anne asked then, remembering herself.

"They will be returned to their families as soon as possible."

"And the Comtesse?" Louis asked, voice almost tremulous.

"She will be held at the Monastery of the Holy Cross, awaiting trial," The Cardinal said calmly, and Anne closed her eyes, lost in thought.

"I detect the foul stench of witchcraft in all this," Sastini murmured.

Louis snorted at that. "The Comtesse de Larroque, a witch? How marvellous! Can she fly on a broomstick? Make love potions?"

Treville smirked, and Anne hid a smile.

Sastini's eyes narrowed. "Your Majesty is joking, but Satan is real and his female familiars are everywhere amongst us. Evil must be extinguished wherever it is detected. Rome will be following these events with great interest."

He stalked from the room then, after one telling glance at the Cardinal.

"What a wonderfully unpleasant little man," Louis smirked, as the man left.

"Witchcraft? What nonsense!" Anne laughed with him. She was a devout woman, of course, but Father Sastini's accusations seemed to her to stink of the dark ages, rather than the enlightened world in which everyone else lived. And she had heard such rumors about Ninon before, but knew that they stemmed only from the old belief that women of her age should be wed and birthing children, rather than trying to make it in the harsh world on her own.

"I'm sure witches are supposed to be ugly. The Comtesse doesn't have any warts, does she?" Louis stage-whispered.

Anne was left then with the puzzling conundrum of whether to laugh or sigh, at those words. "I do not think so, Your Majesty."

Louis nodded. "Just as I thought. She cannot be a witch."

"Then I am sure Justice will prevail," Anne said quietly. "The Cardinal has only your best interests at heart, Your Majesty."

A lie, any day, but it would not suit her interests to look as though she was against the Cardinal, whatever he was planning.

* * *

Anne was not invited to the trial, for she was a woman even if she was also the queen, and the subjects discussed during the trial were rumored to be sensitive ones, but she did show her support for Ninon, however little she could give of it, by coming to the church where she was being tried, even if she could not enter it while the trial happened.

From what she had heard, from one of the guards with whom she had always endeavored to be friendly, it had been an eventful trial indeed. Not the least because of the Cardinal's fainting at the end of it, because of what many assumed was poison.

"Is he still alive?" she asked, in some surprise.

The guard shrugged. "I do not know, Your Majesty. He was taken away quickly, and it was only further evidence that the Lady Ninon was a witch."

Anne sighed. "What nonsense this all is." She glanced behind the guard, noticing Aramis, and then nodded to her informant as she started forward. "You're dismissed, soldier."

He dipped his head. "Your Majesty."

She saw Aramis looking at her, and knew that she should continue walking, that stopping him would only seal her fate all the more, but she could not help herself.

"The Cardinal," she said softly, "Will he live?"

Aramis stepped closer, giving her a silent shrug.

Anne nodded. "He's been no friend to the Musketeers," she acknowledged. And no true friend to her, for, while she had once counted him as a friend, he had not been so since Marie de Medici had left Paris.

"We are all servants of France, Your Majesty," Aramis said softly.

Anne had watched as the crucifix she had given to her musketeer glinted around Ninon's neck, when she was led from the church to her cells, a feeling rather like anger bubbling up inside of her, though she knew it was ridiculous. First of all, he was not _her_ musketeer, and, even if he was, solely due to the times he had saved her life, he was perfectly able to do as he wished with the rosary, as she had given it to him with no expectation of his returning it.

Still, it felt...felt rather like a betrayal, foolish and silly as it seemed.

"I did not expect to find my gift to you around the Comtesse's neck." She swallowed, speaking before he could, not quite wanting to hear the words he might say. "Is Ninon your lover? She is...beautiful."

She noticed that he looked rather amused at the words, and attempted to force down her ire when he finally responded. "She is good woman facing a hideous death. I...I only wanted to comfort her."

She swallowed, feeling all the more foolish, then. "Forgive me. Your compassion does you credit."

She stepped away then, before she further humiliated herself.

"Thank you, Your Majesty," he said quietly behind her, and Anne pretended that she hadn't heard.

* * *

"I cannot believe that she was truly burned as a witch," Louis murmured mournfully over a game of chess a few days later, and moved his pawn into a position from which Anne could have easily stolen his queen.

She didn't, though.

Anne swallowed, reaching up to her throat instinctively. "I as well. That poor woman."

"Yes. Well. At least that weasel of a little man from Rome is gone. The Cardinal should be pleased that she was unmarried and lacked family, for her funds will now revert to the Crown," Louis said with a sigh, and then turned back to his attendants, who were just leaving toward the gardens, where she understood he wished to play some new English gentleman's sport she had never heard of.

Anne sighed as well, though for another reason. She doubted her husband would even think of Ninon de Larroque again, the poor woman, now that she was dead.

She wondered if anyone would even remember her.

"Caroline," she said to her lady, once they were again alone, "Find out what is to become of the school that the Lady Ninon was running, before she was...killed. I am sure that she would not want it to go to waste, as she spent her whole life there."

Caroline curtseyed. "Of course, Your Majesty."

Caroline returned to her several hours later, just before the supper that the King, filled with exuberance after his successful game, had invited her to.

Of course the Cardinal had gotten there first.

Anne could not say that she was surprised, for she had seen the relish with which the Cardinal had condemned that poor woman, and knew that Ninon's fortune was vast, with she being the only inheritor. Anne should have been able to put two and two together long before now.

Which made her angry, as she ate the steaming sole that had been prepared, sitting alongside the Cardinal and across from her husband the King at a meal that she had thought they would eat alone.

"Tell me, Cardinal, what has become of Lady de Larroque's possessions?" Anne asked with false sweetness, turning to the man. "Her school?"

The Cardinal snorted. "That disgusting excuse for a school in which the lady indoctrinated the young and impressionable girls of Paris has been put to better uses. It was sold to a duke, who will live in it, once it has been purged of the many vices which took place there. And the possessions of the lady in question have been handed over to the church."

Anne raised a brow. "I see that you are wearing a new cloak, Cardinal."

If he could get away with glaring at her in front of the king, Anne had no doubt that he would. Instead, the Cardinal speared his next piece of fish with particular aggression, and Louis steered the conversation into safer waters by asking about the Cardinal's Red Guard, and how they might shape up against the Musketeers.

A/N: As the Cardinal went to all of that trouble to fake Ninon's death, I'm going with the assumption that even the King and Queen were duped into believing that she had died, as well. I'm sorry for how long this update took, but I hope you enjoyed, and the next one will be out much sooner.


	4. The Challenge

The letter seemed innocuous enough, when it arrived outside her door. A servant brought it in, dipping into a curtsey before placing it in the Queen's hands and taking his leave.

Anne raised a brow, for usually her letters arrived in bulk, and, though the letter claimed to be from a cousin in Austria, the parchment was of the particular German thickness that her letters from her father always used to come in, which gave her pause.

Ever since the...incident, with her brother the King of Spain, the King and the Cardinal had not allowed her any mail from her relatives that they had not already read, and did not allow her to send any out, or, if they did, it was scrutinized very carefully by the Cardinal before it was allowed to enter a messenger's hands. She was surprised the letter had made it to her alone at all, for the Cardinal was a busy man and often left her letters for reading at a far later date than they had arrived, unless it had never reached the Cardinal.

Or unless this was a test from him, after she had called him out on his appropriation of Ninon's inheritance for his own uses, even if he did have a right to them now that the poor woman was dead.

Suspicious now, Anne turned the letter over in her hand, noting the Austrian seal adorning the back of it. Was this a test of some sort by the Cardinal? To see if she was truly as loyal to France as she claimed to be?

He was always attempting such things, the conniving man, in the hopes of gaining even more control over the French monarchs. And she knew that, should she fail it, he would make no secret of such a thing to the King.

Her husband was a merciful man to the worst of men, but his own brother sat in exile in Orleans because he had committed treason against his king. His mother was still hiding away, cast out and threatened with execution if she ever returned.

Anne harbored no hopes that his treatment of her would be any different, especially when she had yet to even give him a child.

She called the servant back. "Where did this letter come from?" she demanded, noticing the way that the servant tensed at the question, not quite meeting her eyes.

He was not her normal messenger, she noticed, for that was a boy far younger, and this was a man of at least four and thirty. She had never seen him before, and that rather worried her, for she did not think it was on accident.

"It was...just delivered, Your Majesty, by a young woman claiming to have traveled from Austria and having been asked to carry it along with her."

Anne's eyes narrowed. "And who was this woman?"

The servant shrugged, looking almost uncomfortable now, but not so much as Anne would have expected him to be if he knew that the letter was something more than it claimed to be.

"She claimed only to be a villager who was stopped by palace officials on her way through Vienna, Your Majesty. If you like, I could send the palace guards to track her down?"

Anne shook her head, turning the letter over again in her hands. "No. Did anyone besides you see the letter delivered?"

"No, Your Majesty, it came very early," the servant informed her.

Anne nodded. "That will be all, thank you."

The servant gave another bow, and hurried out then, perhaps before he could be dragged back for any other meaningless tasks.

Anne stared at the letter for a long moment, and then stuffed it into a drawer, and endeavored not to think of it again. She could not, after all. She had promised her husband she would not.

And yet, the letter seemed to haunt her as her ladies stepped into the room, preparing her for a meal with His Majesty. At one point, Lady Caroline opened the drawer, and Anne froze, terror budding up inside of her, that she had not hid it better, but Lady Caroline only reached inside for the brush, not looking at where her hands were going, and closed the drawer again.

Anne sighed with relief.

She didn't know if Caroline had seen the letter or not, but she knew that, out of all of her ladies, Caroline was the one that Anne could truly consider a friend, and so it didn't matter.

"The Lady Mariana requested an audience with Your Majesty this morning," Catarina, one of her ladies, murmured as she picked out a few of the jewels sitting on Anne's nightstand, one of them the white pearls that had been a gift from her father, before his untimely death.

They were beautiful, and priceless to her, and she glanced at Catarina, raising a brow.

"The Lady Mariana is a cousin of the King," she explained. "She's traveled from Chambord."

Anne sighed, wiping at her forehead. "Of course."

Catarina moved forward, the pearls held out to wrap around Anne's neck, and Anne stared at them for a long moment before lifting her hand. "No. Not the pearls."

"His Majesty requested them," Catarina explained patiently, still moving forward.

Anne didn't flinch. "The diamonds. His Majesty appreciates those better, anyway."

Catarina hesitated, and then nodded. "Of course, Your Majesty."

* * *

The pearls had been a gift on her birthday, a few years ago. From her father, before he had fallen ill. She could remember that day all too clearly, even if Louis did not, for it had not been the biggest event of that day by far.

She'd woken up, still excited about the prospect of her birthday, for, even though Marie de Medici made it her personal mission to ensure that Anne did not enjoy her time at French Court, as though Anne had had any more say in the marriage than Marie had, (Anne was quite sure that Marie would have been quite content to never have her son marry at all, if he had not been betrothed before her husband had died,) she still believed that her birthday was the one day when the Queen Mother would leave her in peace to celebrate.

She had been so, so wrong.

She had woken up on the morning of her birthday to her ladies gushing over the many gifts that had been sent to her, by French nobles wanting to get in with their new queen and by foreign dignitaries alike, including her father's pearls.

She had clutched the pearls to her chest and felt tears prick at her eyes, for they had once belonged to her mother and she knew that she would treasure them more than anything else she received that day. She bade one of her ladies to put them on at once, and wore them for the rest of the day.

Nothing from her husband, save for a per functionary note and a rose, and the note not even in his own hand, but then, Anne had not been expecting much else, and so she was not terribly disappointed.

She went out to give alms to the poor that day, as she always had on her birthday, regardless of her guards' protests that to do so was far too dangerous, and that Marie would not like it.

Perhaps that only spurred her on all the more. If emptying the palace treasuries in an attempt to help the poor of France, as her mother had often done in Spain, could garner her some satisfaction against the woman, then she would take what she could get.

The feast held in her honor when she returned from giving alms had been a surprise, if only because Anne had not thought that the Spanish-hating French would not go to the trouble, and had seen no sign of the hustle and bustle that such an event should have caused. Her husband gave a great speech for her, his beloved wife, and Anne struggled to keep her face impassive through it, to smile up at him at the end of it, as though she thought he meant the words he'd said.

And she drank.

Her father had not allowed her to drink, back when she still lived in Spain, for she was far too young, according to him, but she found that, despite what other inhibitions Marie had placed on her since coming to French Court, that had not been one of them.

She did not drink more than would have been deemed appropriate, for she was all too aware of the many eyes on her throughout the feast, but enough to make her head buzz pleasantly when she danced with her husband and eventually took her leave of the merriment, sometime around midnight.

All in all, a very satisfying birthday it had been, indeed.

She went back to her chambers escorted by her ladies, nodding to the two guards standing outside of her rooms before going inside, and perhaps she might have paid a bit more attention to their faces when she did so, but she did not.

Instead, she focused on readying herself for bed after a long day, telling Charlotte to prepare a bath for her and slipping out of her stiff clothes as Charlotte did so, with Caroline's help.

She lovingly laid the pearls on the mantle beside her bed and then moved beneath the warm waters of her bath with a contented sigh, allowing Caroline to undo her hair from its silver clasps. It tumbled free over her shoulders, and Caroline set to work on the arduous task of brushing it out as Charlotte got together her nightclothes.

She did not know how long she sat in the water, feeling the gentle buzz in her head turn to something more drowsy, more...dizzying. At first, she thought it only to be the mix of exhaustion and wine, but then, when she went to take another breath, her throat constricted, and she found herself unable to do so.

Eyes widening in alarm, Anne stumbled from the bath, ignoring the towel that her ladies held out for her and clutching at her throat, her eyes tightening in pain.

She glanced up, meeting Caroline's eyes, and it was then that the girl seemed to realize that something was very, very wrong.

"Your Majesty!" she cried out, and then, a moment later, "She's choking!"

* * *

"I shall very likely make two thousand livre off the Cardinal soon," Louis said, smirking at her over his morning meal, his excited grin almost infectious.

Anne lifted a brow at that, relieved that he seemed pleased and did not seem to still be angered over her refusal to wear the pearls the day before. The Lady Mariana had already returned to Paris, and her request had not been overly taxing, for the King was in good enough spirits to be making bets with the Cardinal, it seemed.

Anne, by contrast, had been in poor ones, for where the pearls Louis had asked her to wear had once evoked happy memories of her father, they had been forever stained by the time that Marie de Medici had attempted to poison her on her own birthday, by the knowledge that Louis had believed his mother incapable of such a thing, at the time, and had promptly forgotten about the event by the time he had banished his mother.

"Whatever for?" She could not imagine the Cardinal parting with anything of his easily, especially not two thousand livre.

Louis' smile widened. "The Cardinal has bet me that any one of his men might defeat any one of Treville's Musketeers. I told him that it was impossible, and there is to be a tournament to figure out the truth. I have much faith in my musketeers."

"A tournament?" Anne repeated, with some surprise, her breakfast forgotten. They had not had a tournament in Paris in...some time. The last had been on her husband's name day, several years ago. "Are you sure that's wise, Your Majesty? What if there is some sort of...attack?"

The Huguenots, convinced that if they killed their Catholic King they would have the throne, had attacked during that particular tournament, and, though none of the King's men had been killed, many Huguenots had been, then and the next morning, when they were hanged for treason. Her husband had not wanted to have another tournament since, worried that such a thing would happen again.

Louis laughed at her concern, as he usually did these days, it seemed. "Then all of my best and loyal soldiers will have the opportunity to prove themselves to me by taking care of it, my dear. Now, try not to look so very worried. It is only a harmless bet, after all."

"A bet," Anne said, quietly.

Louis smirked. "Between the Cardinal and Treville. They both seem to think that their men are the best. One of each, of course, will prove themselves to be so."

Anne's lips twitched. "Then I shall like to make a bet with you, Your Majesty. I do believe Treville's musketeers are the finest soldiers of all of France, and I doubt the Cardinal's men shall be able to even attempt to beat them."

Louis raised an eyebrow. "Ah, my wife, making such risky statements. Very well. I shall take your bet. And what shall be the collateral?"

Anne thought for a moment. "Money would be worthless," she said finally. "Perhaps..." and then she leaned forward, whispering something in his ear that made him blush down to the roots of his hair, before he nodded.

"You...drive a hard bargain, my wife," he said finally, sounding a little breathless, and she wondered if that was due to excitement, though she doubted it. He cleared his throat. "I shall take you up on it nonetheless."

Anne smiled. "I never doubted you, Your Majesty."

He nodded. "Yes. Well." He cleared his throat. "I do not think I have much to fear. The Musketeers are fine soldiers, but the Cardinal drives his men far harder, and they would die before they disappointed him."

Anne lifted her shoulders in something like a shrug. "We shall have to see."

Louis' lips twitched. "I like this new side of you, wife. Where does it come from?"

Anne smirked. "I do believe your recklessness is beginning to affect me, Your Majesty," she teased, and Louis laughed at her words.

"What would you say to a trip into the city? We haven't...since that attack of our carriage, and I do believe our people must be missing us."

Anne blinked in surprise. It was usually she who had to suggest such things, especially after an attack, for if they spent too long holed up in their palace the people might grow to rebellion, but she was pleasantly surprised that Louis had done so. She knew that the people needed to see their king, now more than ever, as Sastini had returned to the Vatican, supposedly, and his witch hunting days in Paris were done.

"That sounds lovely, Your Majesty," she told him, and he nodded, clearing his throat a little.

"Well then. Shall we go?"

She nodded. "Of course. I have no pressing concerns."

Louis nodded, clapped his hands for a servant, and ordered the man to prepare a carriage and a royal guard.

Of course, it was not so quick as all of that, for the movements of royalty must be calculated ahead of time with much effort, and the King and Queen did not actually leave the palace until well into the afternoon, the news of their sojourn spreading throughout the city like wildfire. A crowd had turned up to follow the procession throughout the streets of Paris, as Anne had known it would, and yet, as she climbed into the carriage to sit beside her husband, she felt a spark of nervousness, remembering the last time that they had attempted something like this.

No doubt the common people of Paris had already forgotten about the girl who had nearly killed herself in an attempt to bring the Queen a message, but the Queen had not, and she shuddered at the thought of what could have happened that day, at the thought that it could just as easily be repeated today.

Still, she had already told His Majesty that she would do this with him, and to change her mind now would only destroy his mood, something that Anne was certainly loathe to do.

Louis prattled on as they rode, and Anne made a concentrated effort to listen to him and interject when she felt it necessary, but in truth, her thoughts were not on his words, just as her eyes remained on the crowd as they rode past.

And then, her nightmares came to life.

A little boy came running out of the crowd, and though he was not carrying a missive with him, he seemed headed directly toward the carriage with a determination that caused Anne's throat to catch in alarm, and she found herself glancing around wildly for her musketeer to rush out and stop the boy.

No one did.

The little boy fell to the ground before the carriage, and Anne cried out, the carriage this time coming to an abrupt halt before it could take another life, as it had the last time.

She was beginning to understand why her husband usually so disliked going out amongst the people, at this rate.

When Anne was a little girl, her brothers had meant the world to her. Philip had been the oldest son, younger than she and still heir to the throne, and as such he had responsibilities that the rest of them had not, and so she had not been able to spend as much time with him as she would have liked, or as she had with her other siblings, but he had managed to spend as much time with her as he could, anyway.

Philip, she, and Charles had been inseparable from almost the moment Charles was born, all of them sharing a love for mischief that could never quite be suppressed by their nanny, despite their age differences.

And their father, doting as he was, had never discouraged their mischief, preferring instead to find it amusing, while their mother's horror at her unladylike first child's behavior.

Eventually, of course, it was decided that, as a potential princess or queen, Anne would have to start learning how to act like a proper princess, and so Anne had done the logical thing and run away.

She'd taken Philip and Charles with her.

Really, it had been Philip's idea, when she had confessed to him how much the idea sounded horrible to her, not wanting to spend her days in an old dusty room learning crochet and gossiping when she could be doing something much more fun, and he'd mentioned that they ought to run away, like the character in the book she'd been reading to her brothers at night, which she'd stolen from the palace library, and so they had.

They hadn't gotten very far, of course.

The King loved his children dearly, and knew mere moments after they were gone that something was wrong, when their tutors and servants and nannies could not account for them. He sent out his honor guard immediately, and found them in the forest near the castle within the hour, and gave them all such a long lecture over their deed that none of them bothered to run away again, but not before kissing their heads and demanding to know that they were all well, and then treating them to a goodly supper.

And then he'd told them that Anne would have to marry anyway, but that they would always still be siblings, always be his beloved children, and that he did not doubt that Anne would be able to find adventure, even in France.

Charles had been staring up at their father through it all with the same expression of surprised adoration that she now saw on the little vagrant's face as he stared up at what Anne assumed was his own father, and her smile softened at the sight.

Sweet Charles, who'd clung to her like a limpet on the day that she was sent off to wed Louis. She had not thought of him in some time, but then, she supposed, she had put most thoughts of Spain from her mind, as was her duty, ever since it had become treason to communicate with her brothers.

It was easier, that way, not to miss them, and she supposed that she was only thinking of her younger brother now because of that damnable letter.

"Anne," her husband said, sounding as though it was not the first time in the last few minutes.

She realized that the little boy and his father were no doubt far behind them, by now.

Anne glanced up, flushing. "My apologies, Your Majesty. I found myself lost in thought."

He gave her a long look, and Anne blushed all the more when she realized that she had been staring at her musketeer, the one she had resolved not to think about any longer, Aramis, who rode just outside their carriage. She had not even realized that she had been doing so.

"See that it does not happen again, my Anne. I was speaking of important matters."

Anne swallowed, and hoped that her blush could be mistaken as embarrassment for not hearing what he had been saying. Somehow, she doubted that Louis had noticed her staring. "Of course, Your Majesty. It won't happen again."

* * *

"Well gentlemen, may the best man amongst us win," Aramis smirked, pouring Porthos' wine as they sat around a table at the garrison.

"Those of us who are allowed to compete," D'Artagnan muttered, from where he sat on the steps behind them, thoroughly dejected after being informed this morning that he was not among that number, not very long at all after the competition itself was announced.

"You're a musketeer in all but name," Athos pronounced then, "All you lack is the King's commission."

His tone made it clear what he thought about D'Artagnan's sulking over a tournament; Porthos doubted that, had Athos been met with the same news, he would have batted an eye.

Aramis, ever the optimist, somehow managed to smile encouragingly at D'Artagnan while also giving Athos a dirty look. "Go to Treville. Ask him."

"There is just the thorny issue of the entry fee," Porthos pointed out with a slight grimace as the thought occured to him that perhaps there was more about this tournament to be dejected about, glancing at the others. "Anyone got it?"

Aramis sighed, though he didn't appear too concerned. "My pockets are empty, and the cupboard is bare."

"Yeah, just pawned my cupboard," Porthos muttered resentfully, ignoring the snort that Aramis gave to this. He had seen Aramis do the same with the items he owned that he deemed not intrinsically necessary, which included the clothes on his back but not his muskets or his boots.

"Porthos, my friend, I think it's time for us to go fishing. For a patroness," Aramis said, jostling Porthos' arm, and Porthos shot him a grin, having noticed that the other man's recent strange mood had vanished with the exciting news of a tournament. And, for what it was worth, he was glad, even if it meant allowing Aramis to parade him into another attempt to swindle money from a lover that Aramis would pester him about seeing, for the lady's sake, again, long after the tournament was over.

"Needs must."

But he trusted Aramis' judgment, at least when it came to finding sponsors, if not the ladies themselves, and so he went along with it, as he always did.

Besides, he needed that entry fee as much as Aramis did. He really had pawned his cupboard, after all.

Aramis, apparently done sitting around now that the idea had occured to him, as was often the case with Aramis, dragged him out of the barracks with a light smirk, swinging his musket - not his lucky one, Porthos noted - over his shoulder and whistling lowly as they walked.

Porthos rolled his eyes fondly. "Where are we going, then?"

Aramis' smirk only grew. "To the only place one can find beautiful, wealthy patronesses," he told his companion. "To church."

Porthos groaned.

"Look at it this way," Aramis said, clearly taking far too much amusement out of his friend's suffering. "We will more easily find wealthy patronesses there than anywhere else, and we can ask God's forgiveness soon after." He gave Porthos a cursory glance. "If necessary."

"Oi!"

Aramis laughed. "Besides, I haven't been to mass in a while. Might do me some good." Another pointed look. "Might do you some good, as well."

Porthos just sighed.

The subject of religion was an...interesting subject, amongst the three of them, and one that was not normally broached by anyone save Aramis, and then usually only when he was feeling guilty about something or was particularly drunk. Athos had no need for a god that had allowed him the past he'd had, Porthos could not be compelled to think too seriously on the matter at all, and yet Aramis, for all of his airs, seemed to find genuine comfort in Christ, when it was needed.

Porthos tended to avoid any in depth discussions on the matter of religion, because he knew how important that comfort was to Aramis.

He went to mass when he was not on a mission for the Crown, and had sometimes spoke of retiring from the Musketeers, some time in the distant future, to become a monk, not discouraged at all when his brotherhood had found this thought rather humorous, but then, that was just like Aramis.

And sometimes, he asked Porthos and Athos to go with him. Athos had never gone. Porthos did, sometimes, though hardly with the regularity of his friend, and the one time that Aramis had managed to drag D'Artagnan into a mass, the poor boy had looked like a startled stag throughout the service, before proclaiming that masses in Gascony's small parish were hardly so...condemning.

Aramis had found that amusing, of course, but hadn't forced the pup to come again.

"This is a wake," Porthos said incredulously as they stepped through the doorway of the church which was Aramis' customary place of prayer and finding wealthy woman, and Aramis doffed his hat to the hanging figure of the Holy Virgin before moving to find himself a seat.

"The best time to find a beautiful, single woman," Aramis said agreeably, and got a glare for his troubles. His lips quirked. "If it so offends you, I'm sure there are any number of wealthy, respectable young ladies in the taverns who might make you a better offer?"

Porthos grumbled goodnaturedly under his breath, but sat down beside into one of the last pews in the church beside his friend all the same, as he had no doubt that Aramis had known he would.

"Delver, O Lord, the souls of the faithful departed from the chains of..."

The priest was speaking, his words droning in the loud, high cielings of the church, and Porthos leaned over to Aramis to whisper, "Who are the departed?"

Aramis leaned forward, "Head of the candlemaker's guild died a year ago, leaving his widow very rich." Porthos nodded, but Aramis' attentions had moved on, by then. "Fourth pew, left side. Madame Laurent. Has a thing about musketeers. Many...brave men have gone there, few have returned."

Porthos shuddered and quickly glanced away when he noticed that they'd caught the woman's eye. He decided that _that_ was a story he did not need to hear from Aramis.

Aramis smirked at his expression. "Fifth pew. Right side. Madame Marchand. In possession of one indifferent husband, three lovers, and...five small and irritating dogs." He grimaced at some memory that Porthos would be sure to ask him about, the next time he managed to get him drunk. He certainly knew about his friend's dislike for dogs, after all, a pitiable thing for a musketeer.

The priest continued the litany, as Porthos gazed at the women still seated.

He always felt a strange amount of guilt when he did this, unlike Aramis, he knew, although he knew that these women were very much inclined. Especially of the ones who were in mourning for their husbands, however shamefully they went about such mourning, even if such usually only meant that the...relationship between them was easier.

And then he saw her, seated in the third pew, glancing over her shoulder at him, with the most beautiful, wide eyes he'd ever seen and a face like an angel's.

He did not realize how long he stared until he heard Aramis discreetly clear his throat, but even then, he could not quite bring himself to tear his away away from her.

She stared right back, not shy at all, and Porthos glanced inquiringly at Aramis, who shrugged.

"Easy does it. It's a requiem mass, not a party of Madame Angel's."

Porthos' lips quirked, and he gave a mock shudder, at the memory of the one and only time that Aramis had managed to drag him to one of Madame Angelica's parties.

They both crossed themselves, sighing in the knowledge that, despite their having arrived late already, there would no doubt be far more of the service left before they could do what they had really came here for.

* * *

Lady Alice was nothing like any of the highborn women Aramis had even introduced Porthos to before; she did not have little attacking dogs, nor a cuckolded husband, and was perhaps the kindest woman that Porthos had ever met, save for Flea.

And, what was more, she knew what he was up to, and did not seem to mind it. She had already more than paid for the candles with that first visit, and yet did not appear at all surprised when he returned, the next day.

She even looked pleased, and invited him in.

When he had told Aramis that he was going to supper with Lady Alice, Aramis had whistled lowly and nearly caused him to flush, muttering something about how Porthos always "took things slow" with his ladies, before running off for the arms of his own lady once more.

Apparently, she was a very demanding woman.

"It's just through here," Alice told him, as he took off his shoes and followed her through the front hall, and he grinned at her back, where her hair had been pulled into an elaborate style.

"I do remember where the dining room is, m'lady," he said teasingly, and she glanced back at him over her shoulder, before blushing prettily.

"Of course," she said finally, and he decided that he loved the way she blushed. "I...I'm not altogether very good at this..."

He stopped her, putting a hand on her shoulder, not thinking until after he had done so that she might find it improper. When he looked up at her face, he realized that she had not.

"You're doing fine," he promised her, and she blushed again, before sweeping away into the dining room.

They talked over a variety of topics while they ate a lavish feast that Alice claimed at first that the servants had been working at all day, until she later confessed that she had done a spot of the cooking herself, as she rather loved to do so, even if it was not a habit encouraged of ladies of her station.

Porthos finally sat back in a haze of good food and a beautiful woman, sighing contentedly.

"Your husband was a lucky man."

Alice swallowed. "I fear food gave him no pleasure."

Porthos grunted at that.

"He saw self-discipline as a moral virtue," she went on, eying Porthos and not elaborating, but Porthos needed no elaboration from that.

"Oh," Porthos said intelligently, and she smiled at him, even as he cursed his own wrongheadedness.

"I imagine soldiers are very disciplined, too."

"When they're fighting," Porthos nodded. "Off duty, well..."

"Porthos? Can I ask...It might sound strange...It doesn't matter." She shook her head, looking shamefaced and blushing prettily.

He leaned forward then, and the back, reaching out to brush the hair from her face and kissing her, deep and sweetly, and when she finally pulled away and they both came up for air, he found himself instantly missing those swollen kisses.

"A year's a long time without a kiss," he said softly.

"It's been a great deal longer than that," Alice confessed, not quite meeting his eyes, looking almost ashamed at the admission, and he felt a spark of anger on her behalf, that she might have to feel shame for something like that, something that was clearly no fault of her own.

"How he resisted you, I've no idea," he murmured. "Like I said, self-discipline isn't my strong suit."

She smiled. "Nor mine."

He grabbed her hand, leading her towards the door. "Wrong door!" she called out, giggling. Porthos chuckled as well, and followed after her willingly.

* * *

"Bye bye," Aramis said, giving his lady escort another kiss before turning around and grimacing to the rest of the barracks as she swept away, finally sated.

"Oh hello," Porthos smirked, biting back a laugh, and even Treville chuckled as well as Aramis neared them, that look of distaste not leaving his features as he wiped at his mouth with the lady's handkerchief.

"Entry fee?" Porthos called out.

Aramis held it up. "I've earned it, believe me," he muttered, sounding a tad resentful, and Porthos smirked, thinking of his own lovely lady as Aramis tossed the bag of coins into Treville's waiting hands.

D'Artagnan came forward then, handing his own bundle of money over to Treville without a word and moving as if to pass Porthos and Aramis by in the same manner, a mysteriously satisfied look on his face.

"How did you raise the money?" Aramis asked D'Artagnan suspiciously, and D'Artagnan smiled.

"Found a patron of my own."

"Oh?" Aramis sounded intrigued, rather than annoyed, with the less than forthcoming answer. "Wealthy widow?"

D'Artagnan shrugged. "Not as far as I know."

"Gents, when you're ready," Treville murmured, a touch of exasperation in his voice.

Aramis hit the bulls-eye, as he always did, smirking at the look Porthos gave him.

At least in this way, Aramis could still gain the upper hand against him, he supposed goodnaturedly, for he clearly had not with his entry fee.

They sweated and worked away the rest of the day, to the point where his good mood because of Alice had evaporated by the time he'd hit the bull's eye the twentieth time in a row, slapped together two recruits who seemed to have forgotten that they had training as musketeers, and sword fought with D'Artagnan at Athos' insistence that the boy needed to face someone better than him.

D'Artagnan had been working himself raw all day, and, on top of everything else, there was that underlying concern that he would likely kill himself in his attempts before the touranment even took place.

He knew the lad was smarting from the loss of his farm, knew that there would be some sort of reckoning. And he could see the beginnings of that reckoning now, in the way the boy threw himself into his training, the obvious heat behind it worrying even Athos' usually stoic features.

By the time the day was over, Porthos was more than willing to accept the idea of going to the tavern for a stiff drink with Aramis and Athos.

"So, the lady who escorted you to the barracks today..." Porthos said conversationally, as they walked to the tavern beside Athos. D'Artagnan had run off the moment the practices were over, insisting that he had somewhere he needed to be. Porthos was of the opinion that the boy had slipped away so that he could slip back into the barracks without Athos banning him from them for the rest of the day, for more practice.

"A gentleman never kisses and tells," Aramis said in a holier-than-thou voice, before lowering it. "But, between you and me..." he shuddered. "She was very...enthusiastic."

Athos rolled his eyes, taking a drink of the flask he carried always with him.

Porthos snorted, bumping shoulders with the other man. "Would think you'd like that."

"Well, yes," Aramis murmured. "I enjoy passion in, uh, most of its forms. Just...Perhaps not so _much_ enthusiasm, next time." He gave a mock shudder.

"Ah," Porthos teased. "Too much for you, then? I thought I'd never hear of that. You must be agin' on us, friend."

"And what about yours?" Aramis quickly deflected, two high spots of color appearing on his cheeks and making Porthos smirk. "The lovely widow?"

And, despite the day he'd had, Porthos found himself smiling. "Alice. She, uh, we've had dinner."

Aramis raised a brow. "And then there are those without any enthusiasm at all," he said, looking like he was trying very hard not to laugh and failing miserably.

Porthos rolled his eyes, thinking of Alice's late husband. "A gentleman never kisses and tells," he repeated Ararmis' earlier words as they ducked into the tavern, the bowdy music and shouts drowning out his words.

They found seats near the back of the room, and Athos, as always, ordered their drinks.

"You don't know how good you have it, not having to come up with the entry fee with such hard work," Aramis told Athos when the barmaid returned with their ale, casting all too appreciative looks on Aramis as he groaned and took a deep gulp of his own, as she always did. Aramis was a regular, after all. "With all the work I'm doing, Treville should pick me for his champion without contest."

Athos raised a brow, unimpressed. "I hardly think that was the sort of training regimen that Treville had in mind when he told us to practice," he said without a hint of inflection, before walking over to their customary table at the back of the tavern.

Aramis pouted at his retreating back. "I'm sure it's far more...rewarding than pushing D'Artagnan into the dust a dozen times an hour," he muttered, and Porthos snorted, slapping him on the back.

Athos sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. "My work will all be for nothing if he keeps going as he is," he said.

Aramis clucked his tongue sympathetically. "And after finding someone to pay his entry fee, too."

Porthos snorted. "He'll make it 'til then; he's a Gascon. In any case, I'll have that title as champion before you," he told the other man. "Even if Treville has noticed your...suffering." He glanced at the barmaid as she found some excuse to wash down the empty table in front of them, giving Aramis ample view of her bosom. "Don't tell me you've suddenly decided on monogamy."

Aramis groaned, flicking his eyes away from the pretty barmaid. "My lady is very posessive of her lovers," he muttered into his cup, glaring down at the liquid resentfully.

That, of all things, got a brief chuckle out of Athos.

* * *

"And then there was Aramis still," Porthos went on, reveling in the rapt attention of his lovely audience, as she lay against him, staring up into his eyes throughout the story. "We found him in the Grand Canal, looking like a drenched sewer rat. Almost left him behind."

Alice laughed. "What had he been up to since you lost him?" she asked.

Porthos snorted. "Got himself lost, and found himself in the arms of some noble lady. One of the Medicis, as it turned out, so we had to sneak out of the city by boat at nightfall, lest her father find us. He, uh, wasn't exactly pleased."

Alice hummed. "I listen to all the places you've been," Alice whispered as he caressed her bare arm, her words wistful. "I've never travelled more than five miles from Paris. Never been to London. Venice."

"Well, it's not too late," Porthos said softly, encouraging. "You should go."

She glanced up at him from under her eyelashes. "You could come. Be my tour guide."

"I've never had much time for sight-seeing, when I travel," Porthos chuckled, remembering a few of the adventures that he had just recalled to her. "Someone was always trying to kill me."

She huffed a laugh, but then her expression turned serious. "Have you ever thought what you'd do if you hung up the sword?"

"Being a musketeer is the best thing that ever happened to me. Until I met you."

"Flattery will get you everywhere," she said, smiling and leaning forward to kiss him again. And then she paused, pulling back and staring at him with a sudden intensity that made him swallow. "Another life is possible. If you want it."

Porthos lifted an eyebrow at that.

Before Alice, he had not thought much about having another life. Had not thought that there was another life that he would want, besides that of a musketeer. Being a musketeer had been his life, his reason for existence after Treville had plucked him out of the Court of Miracles and helped him to gain his commission.

But now...

He shook his head finally, kissing her again and dismissing the thought after telling her that he would think about it.

* * *

Anne had not known what to expect of this tournament, but the nearly hateful looks that the Musketeers and Red Guards were giving each other as their King and Queen sat down, almost unnoticed, was not it.

She knew that the two had fierce rivalries, compounded by the rivalry between the Cardinal and Treville, but this seemed to be something else, and she did not realize what until the champions for each side stepped forward, and she saw that Treville was one of them.

The other, she did not recognize.

"That man..." Anne said, tilting her head. "I have not seen him amongst the Red Guard before, Cardinal."

The Cardinal raised a brow, as if he was surprised that she had been keeping such a close eye on the Red Guard, before schooling his expression. "He is a...recent recruit, Your Majesty."

"Oh?" she feigned interest, knowing that the Cardinal would have recruited Satan himself if he thought he could win money from such an alliance, and seeing that he had no doubt done so here, as well.

"He was most recently a convict from the countryside, and managed to prove his worth to me in a manner befitting escape from the gallows," the Cardinal intimated to her with a shrug, as though such things hardly mattered.

Anne stiffened, glancing at the hulking creature once more.

"This is a mockery of the tournament," Anne said quietly, and Louis raised an eyebrow at her, looking rather amused.

"Indeed, my dear?"

"The Cardinal's man is a recently escaped convict, not a Red Guard," she murmured, and Louis blinked at her.

"Is that so?"

"Your Majesty-" The Cardinal began, but Louis only raised a hand.

"I do understand that in fact most of those who become such soldiers come from criminal backgrounds, Cardinal. Has this one paid his due, before you allow him to stand against my Captain?"

The Cardinal dipped his head, hiding a smile. "Of course, Your Majesty."

Louis clapped his hands. "There, you see, Anne, there is no problem here. And besides, I have never seen Treville lose a duel before," he laughed at that, as though it were some joke, but Anne only felt a vague sense of nervousness at the words.

Treville might not be a man she liked very well, but he was a far cry from the Cardinal in her mind, and she knew that losing him would risk installing someone far worse. This duel seemed not only foolhardy, but foolish indeed, a waste of a good man.

Anne sighed, setting her chin on her hand and observing the fight with as little interest as she could pretend to have, for she was watching the fight from the corner of her eye. But her gaze now was on the Cardinal, on the gleeful look on his face as that criminal fought Treville.

"I swear, the two of you are like children, fighting each other at every moment," Louis said then, with a long sigh.

Anne and the Cardinal exchanged glances, properly chastened by the words. Or, at the very least, Anne was chastened; the Cardinal looked more mortified at the comparison than anything, which she attempted not to find humorous, as she was hardly in the mood.

When the tournament was over, however, she was relieved when Treville and D'Artagnan both still stood, even as she chuckled ruefully when Louis explained that the rules had been broken and therefore all of the money must go to the royal treasury, despite he himself having betted in the tournament, as he had so earlier bragged to her.

After D'Artagnan had been congratulated by the King, who seemed to have taken an interest in the boy, and the Cardinal had slinked off to wherever he was going to lick his wounds, Anne returned to the palace with her own ladies, going immediately to her rooms and letting her ladies get her ready for the night.

It was only after she'd sent them away, and tossed and turned in bed for some time, unable to sleep, that she thought about the letter that she had stuffed away in her drawer the other day.

And, now that she was awake and aware of it once more, she could not _stop_ thinking of it.

She sighed, getting to her feet and padding over to the drawer, grateful that one of her ladies had left a few embers in the fireplace to keep her warm as she walked over cold marble, hesitating for a moment before opening it.

She picked up the letter that she had nearly forgotten about in recent events, her hands shaking a little as she glanced over her shoulder to ensure that she truly was alone.

She knew that she shouldn't, that doing so could get her in serious trouble with her husband and the Cardinal, that she had already often given the king enough reasons to doubt her, but Anne couldn't help herself.

She opened the letter.

As she had suspected, as some part of her had known all along, it was written in the Spanish tongue.

She folded the letter up again, setting it on the table in front of her and closing her eyes quickly, as though by ignoring it the evidence would go away. She could still tell Louis that it had been a mistake, that she had been confused, and he would very likely believe her, especially considering that the letter had yet to be opened, the seal still unbroken, and he was in such a good mood after this tournament.

He might even trust her the better, for it.

But she couldn't bring herself to do it. She had gone so long without hearing her brother's voice on a page, listening to his words read to her, even if that was all she was allowed from him, and she yearned to hear it now, even if she knew that she shouldn't.

Besides, if her brother had gone to all of this trouble, if it truly was him, then it must have been a serious matter indeed. She knew how her brother loved her; he would not endanger her in this way if he did not think it necessary.

Anne picked up the letter once more.

She ripped open the seal, her fingers shaking as she pulled the letter from its envelope and turned it over once in her hands, still considering.

And then she opened it.

She knew instantly that it was in the flowery script of her brother before she had even read a single word, and held the letter against her chest for a long moment, feeling her heart beating rapidly beneath it.

And then she flatted it out against her desk, and began to read.

 _My dearest sister_ , it read, _I hope that this letter finds you quickly, and that you will be able to see it, somehow, and to forgive me my deceptions. For I was most desperate, and I could think of no other way of contacting you, and I thought that sending the Spanish Ambassador to speak with you could hardly be better. However, I would prefer that this news find you from me, before anyone else._

 _Our brother Charles has died. I am told that it was a relatively painless death; that he was thrown from his horse, and the fall killed him quickly. I was not with him in the end; I was in the countryside, celebrating the birth of my firstborn son._

 _I do believe it a strange thing, to have the birth of my son portend the death of our brother, who would otherwise have been my heir. I have given him the name Balthasar Charles, to honor our brother, who was taken so early and quickly from this world._

 _I am sorry that you cannot be here to mourn with our family, though I understand that your husband and Richelieu, the snake, would never condone such a reunion. Still, I hope that this letter has brought you some peace in these troubled times, and that you know that my heart is with you._

 _Your beloved brother,_

 _Philip_

Anne covered her mouth with her hand, for the moment unable to do anything more than blink through rapidly watering eyes at the letter. And then, the words seemed to sink in, and her eyes filled until she could no longer read the page.

Her brother was dead. Her baby brother, Charles who had always had a laugh and a happy thing to say, who had always been a little more ambitious than perhaps he should have been.

Gone, forever, and she hadn't known until weeks later, according to the date on the card, because she had been too afraid to open the letter.

Charles had only been twenty-five years old, barely a man yet, and how cruelly he had been taken from the world. And his own sister hadn't even cared enough to know, until now.

She heard a knock at her door then, and Anne froze, the damning letter crinkling harshly in her hands.

"My lady?" a voice called out, and Anne bit down hard on her lower lip, wiping a blotchy face on her sleeve and ripping the letter into tiny pieces and throwing the remains into the fireplace with shaky hands as she called out, "Just a moment."

The fire gobbled up the remains of the letter all too quickly, the only proof she had of her brother's death turning to ash, for her husband would never allow her to travel to Spain and she would never see a body, just as the door opened and Lady Jeanette stepped into the room, glancing at Anne's flushed face and raising a brow.

Anne wiped at her eyes, forcing a smile. "Yes, what is it?"

Lady Jeanette's eyes widened as she took in Anne's complexion. "Your Majesty, what is wrong?"

Anne swallowed hard. "N-Nothing, Jeanette. I merely feel a bit ill after the excitement of the tournament, and I could not sleep. I will go back to my bed soon."

Jeannette stepped forward, the concern on her face growing. "Are you certain?"

"Yes," Anne said quietly. "That will be all, Lady Jeannette, unless there was some other reason you came into my rooms?"

Lady Jeannette gave her one more searching look. "No, Your Majesty."


	5. Knight Takes Queen

She lay with the King, on the night after the events of his mother's dramatic return to Court, to comfort him more than anything. And because he had asked her to, and such was a rare thing indeed.

It had been long since he had asked her into his bedchambers, and so she went, surprised and a little pleased, that his mother's sudden return into their lives could lead to one good thing.

He was kind with her that night, gentle, in a way that he hadn't been since their first consummation, awkward and surrounded by the French and Spanish nobility and clergy to ensure that their marriage was legally consummated in the eyes of God.

Not that he was ever unkind to her, in the few nights that they did spend together. He was simply...indifferent, she decided, was the correct word. Nervous more than any real affection, wanting to get it over with and put a child in herso that they never had to do so again.

She remembered that first time. They had both been afraid; he more than she, for she had learned well enough from Rochefort what to expect in her years under his training. But they had made their way through it, as they did this night.

And that night, inexplicably, while her husband kissed her and took her in his arms, she imagined that he was that musketeer, the one who had rescued her during the fray at that prison. She barely refrained from whispering his name aloud.

She knew that she shouldn't. That entertaining such thoughts was dangerous, and that she hardly even knew the man, this musketeer who had saved her.

Yet she thought of him anyway.

The night was so successful, in fact, that she felt guilty, when it was over, for the realization that it was the most pleasuable experience she had ever had with her husband.

She quickly forgot her guilt, however, when the King had left and one of her ladies was helping her into her formal robes.

"Perhaps, my lady, there is hope after last night," Caroline suggested coyly, and Anne shot her a look before pulling the rest of her clothes on herself, a look which warned the younger girl to drop it.

Still, hope blossomed in her chest for the first time in many years.

And, in the afternoon, she had already resolved to go to the healing waters of Bourbon-les-eaux that she went to every year, a bit early this time, to see that her night with the King was worth it.

She took with her most of her ladies, as well as, at the King's insistence, his "four best musketeers," and they rode off just after the morning break of fast, and prayers.

Her prayers were most fervent that day, for she was no fool. After twenty years of marriage, she knew that her husband was tiring of her inability to carry a child.

And yet, she remembered Marie's words, that often it was not the woman at fault, when it came to the Bourbon line.

Ridiculous. She knew better than to believe one word out of that lying woman's mouth.

She could not help but notice that Aramis was amongst the four chosen to guard her, and felt a spark of pride that her musketeer was considered one of her husband's best soldiers.

And instantly squashed the thought, blushing crimson as she rememered thinking of him, even as she lay with her husband.

She could not entertain such ideas; if anyone were to even suspect that she had feelings for a musketeer, of all the men...

"Your Majesty, are you unwell?" one of her ladies, Caroline, asked with concern, turning to look at her.

Caroline, one of the few people in France who had remained a friend to her, over the years since her arrival here.

Anne feigned a smile. "Quite well, thank you," and pretended not to notice that Aramis had turned in his saddle to check on her, at the lady's words.

"Perhaps her Majesty wishes for a break?" Athos asked then, and Anne bit her lip.

If she said no, they would find her rather silly, if they did not already, for rushing off to the waters to ensure a child. It was a superstitution of the nobility, she knew, that the waters could help a child to grow in her womb.

But it was a superstition that Anne clung to, for it was the only thing to do with her womb that she could readily countrol.

And if she asked them to stop, she would be staring at Aramis while they ate, watching those lips close around his meal, waching him swallow with each drink, watching his strong arms flex around a spoon, watching, in short, everything she could not have in her own husband-

"We go on," she ordered briskly, and trotted ahead. The musketeers called after her, sped their horses up to her pace, but she ignored them.

It was Athos who finally caught up with her, Athos who rode beside her even as the others stayed behind with her ladies, and she was a little glad of that, for she knew him least of all.

Had it been Aramis, she would not have known what to say to him, and d'Artagnan, kind as he might have been since, still unnerved her, after that incident in the prison. Porthos, she supposed, would have been all right company, but would have likely spoken to her.

Athos stayed mercifully silent, and Anne watched the scenery go by in equal silence, feeling oddly safe beside him in a way that she hardly did, even in her own home.

Safe as she had been on the ground, in Aramis' arms.

Eventually, the stopped for the night, as Bourbon-les-eaux was a good two days' ride, at the speed her ladies were travelling, and Anne's legs had grown weak from the pace at which she and Athos rode.

The musketeers set up the camp while her ladies crowded around her, and Anne felt almost guilty, watching them work as she and her ladies did nothing. She wanted to help, as she always wanted to whenever she saw servants working around her, for her, but decided against it even as she opened her mouth to offer.

They may be on an informal pilgrimage, may be equals out here, in these woods, but she was still the Queen. Lady Jeannette would no doubt be most willing to carry the story back to the Cardinal, of the Queen doing work like a common woman, and ruin her position once more.

The Cardinal had done worse with less information, once, and she did not dare to allow him even the slightest chance of doing so again.

"Caroline," she called out to her lady, holding out a hand until the younger girl moved forward and took it. "Sing us a song, would you?"

Caroline smiled shyly, not used to singing in front of men, and Anne almost felt guilty for asking, and would have taken it back, if she did not nod and begin to sing.

The Maiden was not normally a song that Anne would have felt uncomfortable hearing in front of men, though she found herself feeling uncomfortable now, a high blush rising in her cheeks as Caroline crooned the words to such an old and intimate song. But Caroline sang it so sweetly that she did not have the heart to tell the other woman to stop, and she valiantly looked away from Aramis the entire time.

When the song had ended, her ladies clapped and smiled, and the Musketeers clapped as well, though they seemed far less invested in doing so, for which Anne was rather relieved.

"We should have another," Lady Margie suggested then, looking at the Queen hopefully. "One that we ladies can dance to, for Your Majesty."

Anne hesitated, before smiling. "If the Lady Caroline is up for it."

Lady Caroline grinned rather impishly. "Of course, Your Majesty."

* * *

Anne swallowed as she saw the stained gown in Caroline's hands. They were inside the tent just after she had spent a considerable few hours soaking in the healing waters, and she supposed that this was a rather definitive answer to all of her prayers, yet again. She had not expected it to come so quickly, however.

"I'm so sorry, Your Majesty," Caroline said quietly, staring down at the stained nightclothes.

Anne sighed deeply, before giving her lady a resigned smile. "It is no matter. I was foolish to come here and think that the waters might give me a child this time, when they have never done so before."

"Oh, my lady," Caroline cried, rushing forward and wrapping her arms around the Queen, pulling her into a shocked embrace. "I am so sorry."

Anne bit down hard on the inside of her cheek, for she would not lose her composure over a child who had not even been made within her, as her month's blood so clearly showed. Still, she leaned into the embrace, glad of the small comfort, in that moment.

"Still," Caroline said, when she finally pulled away, ever the voice of hope, "Perhaps the waters will help you when you return to Paris, and the King."

Anne forced herself to smile and nod, and when Caroline asked to borrow her robe so that she might go and bathe her hands of the Queen's blood, and of the blood on the Queen's nightclothes, she hardly gave a thought to it, nodding and waving the girl out of her tent without another word.

She would regret that for a long time, that she had not said anything more to Caroline, that Caroline had not known of her importance as a friend to Anne before she died in Anne's gown, for Anne's sake.

She spent the next few moments finding something new to wear in lieu of the bloodied gown, since Caroline could not be expected to do that on her own after washing herself and still get the Queen dressed on schedule, and that was when she heard the scream.

She heard one of the musketeers shouting for her, and opened the flap of her tent just as another appeared before her, alongside her ladies. She thought that perhaps one of them was attempting to shield her from the view, when she saw the spots of blood, but he did not succeed soon enough.

She stared down in shock at the body of her lady, of Caroline, on the ground, a splotch of red on her chest, wearing her robe, as the musketeers pulled her out of the line of fire.

"She borrowed my robe," she heard herself say, as if from a long way off, "Just for a moment."

"Your Majesty! Get the Queen to safety!" she heard the musketeers shouting, and then the musketeer Pothos was grabbing her, pulling her behind the safety of a rock where she could be protected from the oncoming shots.

The musketeer Porthos' arms were strong and firm, but they were not full of the warmth and comfort that Aramis' had been, when he had held her after that criminal had nearly killed her.

She was rather aware that thought came out of shock, rather than any true caring, as she heard several more gunshots ring out and the musketeer Athos shout that Porthos must stay with the Queen.

And then Porthos and D'Artagnan were helping her climb the rough terrain, and Porthos was helping her onto a horse. His movements were quick, but unhurried at the same time, and she marveled at his calm.

Her musketeer climbed up behind her, grabbing the reins and whistling at the horse. It moved with the urgency of a creature who understood the danger they were in, and she thought that perhaps it did.

Caroline, sweet Caroline, who had always been kind to her despite that she was the hated Spanish Queen, who had allowed Anne to treat her like a friend despite that queens were not meant to have friends.

And they were leaving her body in the dirt as they rode away.

Anne buried her teeth in the fabric of her sleeve as they rode, and was grateful to the musketeer behind her for saying nothing of it, for not attempting to offer her a comfort she did not want.

The first time they came to a stop, D'Artagnan climbed down from his horse, and, pulling a looking glass from his jacket, spied the land behind them. Anne glanced nervously at her musketeer.

"What if we can't lose them?" she asked, biting on her lower lip.

"We will," he said, smiling reassuringly at her, but Anne shook her head. She appreciated the attempt at comfort, or would have at any other time, but she needed to know the truth.

"What if we don't?"

He hesitated, before finally responding, "We've been in much worse situations than this and always prevailed. You've nothing to fear. This is a relatively quiet day for us." And then he was smiling at her, and Anne found herself smiling back at him.

"Time to go!" D'Artagnan called, and they were moving again, and the silence roared in her ears.

She did not know how long they rode for, did not know even if she had been aware of most of it, before they stopped by a copse of trees for a short rest, and she found herself panting with the exertion of the crushing weight of uselessness on her chest.

"There's been no sign of them for an hour now," D'Artagnan said, as he climbed down from his horse, clearly about to check if they were being followed once more.

Athos nodded. "We're safe for now. The Queen needs to rest."

She would have protested, for she knew that their pursuers could not be far behind, but she was tired, physically from so much riding, but that was not the only thing weighing down on her.

Aramis helped her down from her horse, and then informed the others that he would go and find them something to eat. Porthos set about getting a fire ready, and Athos disappeared into the woods as D'Artagnan went back to his spyglass. She stood there uselessly for a long moment, before she found her feet trailing after Aramis'.

She could not help but watch, hidden behind a tree, as he stood mid-thigh in the water, shirt tossed onto the bank alongside several small fish, bending down to make a grab for the fish swimming past in the little creek with his bare hands.

For a moment, she was fascinated, for he did this with the ease of someone who had been doing such his entire life.

"Can I help?" she finally asked, stepping forward, and he glanced up in surprise. "I mean, not catching fish, of course, but...anything. To help."

He dried his hands by flapping them in the air, and then waved one dismissively in her direction. She pretended it didn't sting. "Rest while you can, Your Majesty. Soon we'll be riding again."

She shook her head insistently, taking another step forward. "No, I'd like to be useful. Really."

He hesitated, and then gestured toward the fish. "Well, in that case, can you gut a fish?"

She glanced down at the pile on the bank, grimacing as one of the fish flapped uselessly in the air.

Aramis smiled gently. "Porthos is preparing a fire. I'm sure he'll appreciate help collecting sticks."

She smiled. "Thank you. And I'm sure I can cook anything."

How hard could it be, after all?

* * *

The rest of her ladies had gone back to Paris on a detour, and Anne feared for them, that her assailants would think she was with them, rather than with the musketeers, even if the musketeer Athos had already hinted that they were being followed. She was glad, however, that they were not here to be killed alongside Caroline, glad that there was no singing tonight.

The mood was not happy and friendly as it had been the night before. She could feel the tension in the air, and did not know if it was from the death of her lady and the vigor of the chase or the fact that her cooking was not nearly so good as her musketeers were attempting to pretend it was, for the sake of her vanity.

She could taste her own cooking well enough, after all, though she supposed it was valiant of them to pretend otherwise.

And then the ground began to shake, and they were moving again, D'Artagnan taking her hand and helping her toward the horses.

She heard Porthos complaining that he would much rather make a stand, and couldn't help but find herself agreeing with him, even if she knew that she would not be of much help in such a fight, would rather be a hindrance to the musketeers for whom this was part of their everyday lives, apparently.

She did not know how long they rode until they saw the convent.

The convent sat on a hill, and Anne couldn't help but breathe a breath of relief at the sight of it. The Church had, after all, always been a great comfort to her, and for it to pose as her rescuer now...perhaps God had not completely abandoned her.

"You two ride to Paris and get reinforcements," Athos ordered Porthos and D'Artagnan. "We'll hold up in there until you return."

"What, just you two? Alone?" Porthos asked incredulously.

Aramis snorted. "Thank you for the vote of confidence."

"We won't be back before tomorrow at the earliest," D'Artagnan protested. "There's at least a dozen of them."

"In that case, you'd better hurry," Aramis told him, sounding flippant, though she could feel how tense he was against her back.

"Good luck," D'Artagnan muttered, like he thought they were really going to need it but wasn't willing to say so. Anne nodded to him, and he hesitated a moment longer, before following after Porthos.

The doors to the convent burst open as they rode in, Aramis riding on after Athos helped Ann down from her horse before moving to shut the gates.

The nuns came running out, looking more startled by his action than their arrival.

"These gates are never closed," one of them protested, rushing to stop him.

Athos looked very tired to Anne's eyes. "This is an emergency."

"Everyone is welcome here, at any time of night or day," she argued, eyes blazing, and they continued at it for a while, until several more nuns came running out, one of them calling, "Close the gate, Sister!"

Athos was more than willing to comply, and Anne wondered what Aramis had told the ladies, to convince them to do so.

"Come with me," the nun who had ordered the gates closed, no doubt the Mother Superior, gestured to Anne, who followed her silently.

"You are welcome, Your Majesty," Mother Superior told her, as she led her indoors. "Our humble convent is your sanctuary."

Anne swallowed. "Thank you. Your kindness will be repaid in full when I return to Paris and tell the King of it."

The nun waved a hand dismissively. "This is our duty, to God and you, Your Majesty. And besides," she smirked, "It is the most excitement our humble convent will likely ever have."

Anne forced herself to smile. "Nevertheless."

The Mother Superior nodded in a rather distracted way, before leading Anne into a small chapel inside the convent. "You will be safe here," the older woman promised her. "It is the most defendable room in the convent."

Anne raised a brow as several more nuns filed in behind them, all openly staring at her, and Mother Superior explained, "We have had our run-ins with rats. Nothing gets into this room that we do not allow in."

She had a feeling that the words were meant to make her smile, and so she did, standing awkwardly before the nuns when Athos and Aramis entered the room behind them.

Athos was telling the nuns that they could leave, but Mother Superior stood by Anne like a rock; she could tell already that the woman had no intention of going anywhere, and while the gesture was appreciated, Anne couldn't help but feel guilt, that anyone might die because of her.

"We could take the Queen with us," Mother Superior suggested suddenly. "Disguised as a Sister."

Athos shook his head at the same time that Aramis murmured, "If she is recognized outside, we cannot protect her."

Athos nodded. "The Queen stays with us."

Anne bit her lip, wondering if she would be forced to watch these musketeers die for her as she had already imagined the nuns doing.

Mother Superior stepped toward her fellow sisters. "Anyone who wished to leave may go now," she told them. "With my blessing." The ones who were not sitting down before this sat, resolute in their wish to stay.

"It seems we are all at your service."

Anne stepped forward, a small smile on her face; she could not quite summon up the will for a better one. "Your loyalty will not be forgotten," she promised the women, while the musketeers and Mother Superior conferred behind her, and then one of the nuns was pulling Aramis away.

The nuns got to their feet, going off to make preparations, and Anne moved after them. She did not feel so out of place here as she had so often in French Court. The Church had always been her rock, even when she was a little girl in Spain.

"Let me help you," she offered to some of the nuns, who nodded eagerly toward her, and Anne soon found herself sorting musket balls, and preparing for battle in a way that she had never thought she would have to, before.

The nuns were gracious enough about having their queen work amongst them, awkward about it, at first, but, once they saw that she was willing to do anything they did, no longer seeming to notice.

"Someone must go and give these to the musketeers," one of the nuns said, and Anne surprised herself when she murmured, "I'll do it."

"I believe the musketeer Aramis was in the cellars with Sister Helene," one of the nuns offered, and Anne nodded gratefully, going after him.

* * *

"Here," she said, handing the musket balls over to him.

"Thank you," Aramis said quietly, not meeting her eyes as he took it from her. There was a tenseness in his shoulders that she had never seen there before, not even when he threw himself atop a bomb for her, and she felt a strange need to be rid of it, in what little way she might have been able to offer comfort, after what she had overheard of his conversation.

"That nun, the one you were with downstairs... I'm sorry, my arrival was a disturbance," Anne apologized. And she truly was, that she had interrupted such a private conversation, that she had heard more of it than perhaps Aramis realized.

"You did not disturb anything," Aramis said, looking resolutely forward, and Anne sighed, for the distance reminded her of her husband, and his inability to share anything of personal value with his queen, despite that she was his wife.

"I may be cosseted, but I'm not a fool," Anne said gently, meeting his eyes.

"I knew her...once. We were to marry," he said finally, eyes on the gun in lieu of her.

"And you changed your mind?" Anne prompted quietly, recognizing that he needed to speak of this more than she needed to hear it.

Aramis sighed. "She fell pregnant and the marriage was arranged. I was happy. I was in love, and so was she. But then she lost the child and her father... took her away and put her in here. I never saw her again, not until today."

Anne winced in sympathy. She wanted to say something, to comfort him somehow, when Athos burst into the room, and at the same time, musket fire rained on the open window behind Aramis. Athos grabbed her, pulling her to the safety of the chapel, and she knew that the moment was lost. Perhaps forever.

The shooting seemed to go on forever, once Anne had been placed between two nuns and the Mother Superior suggested they all pray together.

"My parents always hoped I'd end up in a place like this," Aramis shouted, over the volley of musket shots and the prayers of the nuns surrounding Anne.

"They wanted you to become a nun?" Athos called back.

"A priest."

She didn't quite understand how the two men could joke at a time like this, though she was beginning to believe Aramis' words that this was not so shocking to them.

"Why didn't you?"

"Because I found I was better at dispatching people to Hell!" Aramis shouted, and then the windows of the chapel shattered, and Anne found herself whispering the prayers of the nuns as well, clutching her hands together tightly.

"Mother of God!" Mother Superior called out at another shot, "Helene, come with me."

"Continue to pray, Sisters," Anne told the other nuns quietly after the Mother Superior had gone and the sounds of their prayers began to dwindle. "I think we will need God's intervention, now."

* * *

The nun, the one that she had overheard Aramis speaking with before, lay dead on the floor after the invasion of their attackers, and Aramis lurched to his feet, moving away from her as though he'd been burned when he realized he was not alone.

Anne swallowed hard, feeling a great swell of pity, thinking of Caroline and wondering how many more would die this day.

"We will take her to the Small Chapel," she heard Mother Superior saying, distantly. "Come, sisters."

The nuns moved to help her, but Anne stayed put, frozen, barely noticing when Mother Superior stood to her feet and guided Anne before them as they carried the girl, led her back to her room after the nun's last rites had been said, and set her down on the bed.

"You ought to get some rest, Your Majesty," Mother Superior told her gently.

Anne found herself nodding as she laid down on the bed, and then she was mercifully left alone, with a small candle lit beside her bed, and Anne stared at it long into the evening as sleep refused to claim her.

She lay in bed, sleepless, restless, and unable to think clearly. Her mind's eye saw only pictures of the nun, lying dead on the floor, of Caroline, with splotches of red staining the gown Anne had given her.

She sighed, sitting up to go and fetch herself some water, as she usually did when she could not sleep well, but she paused when she saw Aramis sitting guard outside of her bedchamber, head in his hands, sitting instead on the edge of her bed.

The crushing silence lasted only a few more moments before Anne asked quietly, "What are they building?"

He glanced up, clearly surprised that she was still awake, or perhaps it was merely the shock of the nun's death on him causing him to not notice his surroundings, as Caroline's death had done to her.

She was surprised when he actually spoke. "Battering ram, perhaps. Or a ladder."

Anne swallowed. His voice...he sounded so...hopeless. She could not abide that, could not abide this horrible, whirring silence that was so loud in her ears.

Standing to her feet, she walked out into the antechamber, once again surprising him when she spoke.

She stood, walking over to him. "A few years after I married, I too fell pregnant." He glanced up again, surprised at the end of the crushing silence, though she doubted he was surprised by her words. Everyone in Paris had known about the pregnancy, at the time. It had been such a happy time for France. "It was perfect. I could feel my child inside me... moving and kicking. I had his whole life planned out, what he would do and... be like. And then...I lost the baby." She glanced up at Aramis, gaze intense.

She did not know Sister Helene, but she knew that look in the other woman's eyes, when she had gazed upon Aramis from afar, and so she could say the next few words with certainty.

"Six years, and I've never forgotten that child, not for a single day. I am certain that Sister Helene never forgot you... or your baby."

She could remember all too well that day, playing with her ladies on the staircase before the garden. She had been so young, and so foolish, thinking that any child of two monarchs would be strong and invincible, not knowing the dangers because she was considered too young to know them, despite the fact that a child grew in her. But her doctors had told her nothing of being so very careful, in those early months. In fact, many of them had told her that it was unlikely she would have to refrain from her normal activities until the time of her confinement.

It was only upon playing on those stairs that she learned her mistake.

Marie, her closest friend and lady, had offered a game of tag, and Anne had been excited to do something that involved a form of exercise. She had learned early on that her husband did not share her love of horses, nor of any strenuous activities, and so even the idea of tag had pleased her.

She fell, on the fifth step.

The moment had been horrendous, terrifying in its swiftness. She had felt blood soaking her thighs from the moment her body slammed against the marble stone step, had felt an ache in her chest and a pain in her stomach that nearly made her pass out, it was so great.

And she had felt her child slip out of her body, like an angel leaving for another world.

She had known, even as she screamed for her ladies, even as they screamed for the guards to call a doctor, that it was too late. That her child was gone.

Her ladies had panicked, had called for the doctors and servants and moved her back to her chambers, despite the doctors later saying that she should never have been moved at all, that that likely compounded the miscarriage.

But Anne had known that her child was gone long before that.

The doctors had been pensive, had told her that she was young and healthy and likely to have a child again, despite this failure, unlike some queens, who never recovered from their first miscarriage enough for a second.

And then they gave her something to help her nerves, and left her.

And, when it was all over, Louis came to visit her in her bedchambers. He accepted her apology for her recklessness, and then informed her that he had sent Marie away, and that she would never see "that Spaniard" again. And then he had told her that she must be more careful, the next time, before leaving her alone to her tears.

She liked to tell herself that their relationship had never recovered from that day, that that was why he was so awkward and distant around her, but she knew that their relationship had never really had the chance to thrive in the first place; there was nothing to recover, and so it had not hurt so badly to lose one another.

She blinked, and remembered that, fresh as the pain still was, she was not the one in pain just now, someone else was.

Aramis swallowed hard. "All these years, I believed Isabelle was the only woman who could make me happy. But she was right. It was a lie."

"You're grieving," Anne consoled him, barely refraining from reaching out and putting a hand on his arm.

"She knew me better than I know myself. She was right to stay away from me."

"No, Aramis," she moved to sit across from him. "You are brave and honourable... and kind. Any woman would be fortunate to be loved by you."

He looked up at her then, his eyes shining, and she swallowed hard past the sudden emotion in her throat, realizing just what she had said.

And she knew in that moment, as she had known when she lay with the king, that she should disengage now, should make her excuses and leave before things took a turn for something that she could not control.

And then he met her eyes, and her hand was on his arm, and the next thing she knew, his lips met hers, and she pulled the musket off of his lap, gently guiding him back to her small bedchamber, to her bed.

He pushed her down, gently, peppering her with more concern than her husband had ever shown her.

He was full of passion, this heartbroken musketeer, and it was intriguing and refreshing all at once, and Anne could hardly take her eyes off of his own for an instant, afraid that, if she did, she would lose this moment between them forever.

For a moment, she was not a Queen, but a woman, and she could take as much passion from this moment, as much comfort, as he. He was not a musketeer, but a man. And, for a moment, they needed each other.

She thought of the words he had spoken of Ninon, of how he had given her the crucifix only to offer comfort when he knew that she needed it, for she was a woman suffering, and wondered if this was her motivation behind offering him comfort now, or if there was something more.

In that moment, it was enough, the wondering, and when it was over and he moved to go back to his guarding position, she took hold of his hand, pulled him back into bed with her.

He sighed, but relented, settling down beside her and pulling her close against his chest. Anne closed her eyes and made a wish to the candle burning out beside them, that this moment would last a lifetime.

* * *

When Anne awoke, she sat up slowly, her muscles aching, and, for a moment she chastised herself for spending too much time on horseback the night previous.

And then, with the empty place on the little bed in the nunnery beside her coming into view, she remembered everything.

And knew that her body did not ache of the gruels of horseback riding.

She had woken alone, though she was not surprised, and with that loneliness, the truth of what she had done hit her like a blow to the stomach.

She had just slept with a member of her husband's musketeers. Had just committed adultery, in the eyes of God and men, and, should anyone ever learn of it...

And she had enjoyed it. Enjoyed it far more than she had ever enjoyed a night in her husband's bed, for where her husband exuded only nervous duty, Aramis had shown her passion.

She could have cursed herself for enjoying it so much, but it didn't matter, now. Not if they were going to die here, anyway.

The door opened, her musketeer stepping into the room, a look of longing filling his eyes before this too, was replaced with a deferential bow to the floor in front of her.

"Your Majesty should probably stay with the nuns," he said softly, still refusing to meet her eyes.

She hated that. Hated that, after the night they had spent together, even if it was only a kind dream, where he had spoken to her not as a Queen but as a lover, he now called her, 'Your Majesty,' as though he were still only one of her guards.

As if, truly, he had ever been.

She wondered if it had meant nothing more than a mere night's comfort to him, for she knew that he took many women to bed, if he was not plagued by memories of sweet, lingering kisses and touches, as she was. It had been a mere way of comforting and receiving comfort for her as well, at first, but it had not stayed that way.

She thought she had felt something the night last, thought that he had felt it too, but perhaps she had been nothing more than a particularly powerful, pretty face in his bed, to make up for the reminder of his old fiancée.

And she wondered why it was that she felt so angry at that thought.

Struggling not to sigh, Anne answered resolutely, stubbornly, "I want to stay here," she argued, pulling up her stockings, "help you."

Her musketeer gulped. "Your Majesty, I dont think-"

"I am the Queen," she interrupted, as if either of them needed that reminder, "and this is my decision. Besides, surely I am safer with you than in the care of unarmed nuns."

Still, she waited. If he had told her to go, she might have.

He only nodded, dipping his head in agreement, and then moved aside for her to pass him, a small smile on his lips.

The fight itself was all a bit of a frightening blur, and by the end of it, when more musketeers had arrived and her musketeer in particular was helping her onto her horse, she smiled at him and wondered if she was seeing the same lost look in his eyes, or if it was merely a reflection of her own feelings. And then he climbed up onto the horse behind her, and the musketeer Athos was giving him a dark look, but said nothing as they rode back to Paris as quickly as possible without being too hurried.

And when they arrived at the palace, to much fanfare on her husband's part, Anne told herself to forget about his soft touch on her arms when he helped her down from her horse, his gentle smile as he welcomed her home.

She walked into the throne room with her head held high, knowing that she must be strong now or forever destroy herself.

The knowledge that she had slept with a musketeer ate at her as she walked, and she found herself fearing that someone would accuse her of it the moment they looked at her, but nothing happened.

Now that she was here, she was not certain that she could face the angry words of her husband, angered that she had put herself into danger, once again, for the sake of a child.

So it was to her shock that he reacted with quite the opposite attitude.

He strode into the room at the same time she did, all carefully planned, and yet she noted that, where she had been the one in mortal peril, his legs shook as he walked, his face uncommonly pale.

He stopped when he saw her, eyes wide, and rather relieved, or so she liked to think. His pause forced the nobles walking behind him to do so as well, and an awkward silence fell over the room, all waiting for the King to make the first move.

"Your Majesty," Anne finally said, curtseying, when the silence grew too great.

The picture of decorum, now that she had returned to Court. No longer the woman who had let herself be with Aramis.

She knew then that she would always have to remain that way, lest anyone dare to think of the great sin she had committed with a man she knew less, but loved far more, than her own husband.

Then Louis was almost running forward, taking her hands in his and pulling them close to kiss them with a passion that he rarely displayed in public, and even less so in the privacy of their bedchambers.

She doubted, at the beginning of their marriage, that Louis would ever love her. But she had begun to understand, in the years since, that his love for her was displayed much differently than the love she would want in a man. The passion Aramis had displayed two nights' past.

Louis' love for her was different, more the love a man might bear his sister than his wife, but it was no less present, and she loved him in return, in any way she could. But he was not a husband, not to her. More a child, she knew, in his feelings.

Not Aramis.

She blinked up at him, barely able to keep the shock off her face when he finally lifted his face to meet hers. "I thought you were dead," he whispered hoarsely. "And I could not countenance such a thing."

She smiled. "It's good to be home." And then he kissed her forehead, and though some part of her did love her King, she could not help comparing that kiss to the many that Aramis had peppered across her skin, her lips...

He held tightly to her hand, pulling away to smile at the Cardinal, and Anne forced such thoughts from her mind. The Cardinal gave her a strange look, and for one, horrible moment, she thought he could see into her very soul, knew the great weight she now carried.

She would not call it guilt, for it was not that.

"Your Majesty's safe return is a cause for great rejoicing," the Cardinal said, with a shallow bow, and Anne found herself forcing that ever-compassionate smile onto her face at his words, at the very sight of him. "And I have excellent news. The man responsible for the attack on your life is in custody, pending execution."

He paused, suitably; for suspense, though Anne suspected it was more to remind her and her husband (though she was certain the subtle message would be lost on Louis) who was in power, here.

As he constantly sought to remind her, ever since she had first attempted to undermine him.

"Count Mellendorf," he said finally, sounding properly saddened by his own words. "Signed a confession accepting full responsibility for the attack."

"Mellendorf," her husband murmured mournfully, still clutching to her hand like a lifeline. It was the most she could remember touching him in some time. "Who'd have thought it. Well done, Cardinal." And then he began clapping for the man Anne most detested in the world, and she found herself clapping as well.

When the King turned to leave, he reached for her hand once more, surprising her, and they walked out of the room, together.

She swallowed, thinking of her purpose for the journey in the first place.

And now, walking with the King as he turned and asked, "Was the beginning of your journey at least pleasing, Your Majesty?" she could not help but answer, "I hope that it was...productive, Your Majesty."

And she felt a bit more of the weight of guilt upon her as she said it, forcing herself not to glance back and look at her musketeer.

The King smiled. "I hope so as well, my dear," he said, and kissed her hand again, as though he could not quite restrain himself.

And she had a thought then, a dangerous one.

Anne fell for the musketeer the moment she saw him in that prison, the moment he shoved her out of harm's way and whispered to her that it would be all right, but she did not dare act on it, not only as a married woman, but as a woman married to the King of France. If she wasn't, she might have.

And it was a decision she knew she might grow to regret, but that regret only came much later, too late.

A/N: The circumstances of the miscarriage Anne remembers in this chapter was actually that of her second pregnancy, but, as I couldn't find any information about the first, I decided to switch them. I hope no history buffs are offended, haha.


	6. The Cardinal

She could not say as to her motivations for lying with Aramis.

Some part of her believed that it was because she felt empathy for him, over their shared loss. Another knew that it was because, after eight years of barrenness in French Court, eight years of travelling to these rumored waters only to lose her life and nearly lose one of her ladies because of said waters, she was desperate.

She was not so cold a woman as to have slept with Aramis for the sole purpose of that journey, for she had done so to comfort him, and herself.

Perhaps a little of both, but when she had lain with Aramis, she had thought only of comforting him.

She did not choose Aramis to be the father of the next king of France; fate, she believed, had intervened on her behalf, on her thoughtlessness.

Indeed, she was not certain she would have, given the choice. Oh, he was charming and beautiful, and had a certain melancholy about him that drew her, but that was just the problem.

She did not want to see him hurt, and she knew what her actions would cause, should the truth ever come to light. Should she fall for him before it did.

That night, he had been vulnerable, as had she, and, though she may have taken advantage of that vulnerability due to her own, she had done so only to comfort a man that she believed to be hurting, when she could so understand his pain, and, in doing so, perhaps bring a bit of comfort to herself.

It had been sweet love, not like her few experiences with Louis, and she knew, the moment he fell asleep in her arms, as she lay there in the darkness and traced his beard with her finger, that she had fallen for this charismatic musketeer.

There could be no escaping it, and no one could ever discover it, but Anne was in love with a musketeer.

The child had been an added blessing, and one that she had not dared to pray for, especially after seeing the blood on her clothes that day. Truly, a blessing.

Anne never thought she would do something so foolish, though in retrospect, if she were a much colder woman, she would have done it a long time ago.

But at the little nunnery in the country, the excitement and danger mingling with the hurt she knew they both shared, she had sought only to offer and recieve comfort, had thought not of France and of her many years as its barren queen, but of making love to a man who did not flinch from her touch and inspire the same revulsion in her.

She said nothing of her suspicions (even if they were more than that) to her husband until she was absolutely sure. She did not want a repeat of her many previous miscarriages, did not think that her marriage would survive it.

"You are certain?" Louis asked, face rather grave as he remembered all of the other times that Anne had informed him she was with child.

All turning into only heartbreak and further despair.

Anne smiled, dipped her head. "I am. And I am confident that this child shall live to a be great King, and a beloved son, one day. I just...know it, in my heart."

"Wonderful!" The king cried, happily throwing his arms around her, and Anne almost jumped at the touch.

It was so rare that her husband displayed such physical affection for her, after all.

"I am so proud of you, my love," Louis went on, and Anne had to open her eyes again, to ensure that this was truly her husband, her Louis, speaking. Calling her _his love_.

Years ago, he might have called her that, when the stress of Marie de Medici had finally left him, when she was first pregnant with a child who it was believed would be born living and strong.

He hadn't called her such a pet name in a long time, however.

His happiness was infectious, however, and in the next moment, Anne found herself smiling with him, the guilt she felt at knowing that her husband was not the father of this child ebbing away.

"We shall have a tournament, to celebrate my new heir!" Louis declared then, and Anne smiled despite herself.

"I would like that," she admitted. "Perhaps..." she swallowed. "Perhaps the musketeers could fight in it, for the sake of their future dauphin." She paused, thinking of what the musketeers had told her, of how she had confronted the Cardinal after learning of his involvement in the assassination attempt that had given birth to this child. "Perhaps they could fight against the Cardinal's Red Guard, prove their worth in having to one day defend their dauphin."

Louis grinned. "That sounds like a wonderful idea, my love. Get their blood pumping. And perhaps I might win a few more livres off of the Cardinal and Treville in the mean time."

Anne smiled softly, knowing how well her husband would enjoy that. Perhaps more than the tournament itself.

And there was no reason that Anne could not find a way to enjoy this tournament, as well. It was, after all, in celebration of the child in her belly.

* * *

"Let the tournament begin!" Louis called, standing to his feet and taking another sip from his glass of wine. "Whomever wins will have one hundred livres, and the honor of being the first to fight in the name of the next Dauphin of France."

The men standing before them cheered as Louis took his seat on the raised podium beside Anne, nodding to Treville and the Cardinal to ready their men.

"Who do you think will win, my love?" he asked Anne, placing a hand gently, almost nervously, over her belly, and Anne guided it to where she could feel the child kicking.

He let out a little gasp, even as Anne laughed and told him, "I am smarter than the Cardinal and Treville, my dear. I am certainly not going to wager against a man so good at it, especially when he knows far more about such things than I, having much more interest in them."

Her husband smiled, pleased with the compliment if not with the child moving beneath his very hand, not even seeming to notice as the tournament began and two soldiers rushed at one another for the pleasure of their king. "Very well. You are most likely wise not to."

When the first soldier was downed, a musketeer whom Anne had never seen before, Louis let out a huff of breath and gestured for the next two to appear on the fighting ground.

"Might I sit with Your Majesties?" the Cardinal asked suddenly, moving forward from where he stood below them, and Louis nodded eagerly, even as Anne inwardly sighed.

"A wonderful tournament, so far," the Cardinal told them, as he situated his long robes around him, and Louis laughed.

"Do you think you're going to beat Treville already, Cardinal?"

The Cardinal shrugged. "Perhaps, Your Majesty. It is only the second fight, of course."

"Of course. My child is kicking, Cardinal," Louis told the older man excitedly, rubbing Anne's stomach now. "Feel."

The Cardinal glanced at Anne before responding. "I think not, Your Majesty, although it is humbling to know that already, the next dauphin moves within his mother."

Anne squinted at the Cardinal, and wondered if there was a hint of malice in his tone, or if she had merely imagined it.

Louis pouted. "I suppose you're right not to, Cardinal, just as my Anne is right not to bet against me."

The Cardinal glanced at Anne again, but when he spoke, it was of another matter entirely, one Anne had not expected to hear from him. At least, not yet. "Your Majesty, I would like to offer my humble expertise in this matter, knowing many of the greatest houses in France that would offer suitable...help, for the Dauphin."

Anne touched her belly, smiling slightly, before the words sunk in. There was no chance that she was about to allow the Cardinal's loyal followers to have a hand in raising her child.

It was...infuriating, to say the least, that the Cardinal had a hand in choosing those who would watch over her child.

She knew that there must be someone with the Dauphin, always, that servants must always be caring for the Dauphin, but she wished that she could be the only one to care for her son. Or, at the very least, the only one with the ability to choose said help.

With the Cardinal already suspicious of her, and angry that she held such blackmail over him, she knew that he would choose those loyal to him, those who were not loyal to her.

And she did not trust any such person around her son. Even if he was not yet born, she thought, glancing down at her belly.

Louis, however, grinned at this. "That is very kindly thought, Cardinal."

The Cardinal indulged in a rare smile, eyes never leaving Anne. "I live to serve, Your Majesty."

And so it was that Anne was able to assauge the guilt she felt at that moment when she called out, "The Tournament, Your Majesty. Your Musketeers are simply wonderful fighters. You must be proud."

Louis laughed, touching her arm. "And here I thought my wife uninterested in such things," he said, not bothering to notice that Aramis was the musketeer currently beating one of the members of the Red Guard.

She was certain, however, that this was not lost on the Cardinal. He narrowed his eyes at her, but with the King in attendance he could say nothing, do nothing but speculate, and his speculations mattered little.

What she had told the Cardinal was true. She had more influence with her husband than he could ever dream of, and now that she was with child, with the next dauphin of France, there was nothing at all that the Cardinal could do to touch her.

She wondered if Marie de Medici had ever thought the same.

When the musketeer Aramis won the tournament, Anne wondered if fate had intervened once again.

* * *

"Welcome, my child," the Cardinal said, in that calm, soft voice that also managed to be cold and disinterested at the same time, and Anne, Queen in name only, swallowed as she shut the door to the confessional behind her.

"Forgive me Father, for I have sinned. It has been five days since my last confession."

She waited with baited breath, the words he had spoken several weeks earlier at a fete at the forefront of her mind, her worry that he no longer shared her interests freezing her, keeping her from saying anything more.

She had written to her brother in Spain, who urged her to put a child in her belly, for the French King, though nothing more than a child himself, was sickly, and if he were to die without an heir, Anne would be sent back to her homeland in disgrace, and the throne would go to Louis' younger brother Gaston, leaving Marie de Medici in power for even longer.

It did not suit Spain's interests for Marie de Medici to remain the Regent of France for a day longer than necessary, and it certainly did not suit Anne.

Her brother was urging her to do something, but Anne had no influence with her husband, who seemed more interested in his hunting than he did with her, and, on the days when he was sick, being consoled by his mother rather than his wife. She had no friends at Court, and she was strangled in every attempt to reach out to anyone by her power hungry mother-in-law.

All of these things were motives for what she was about to do, of course, but they were not the reason that she was here.

She could hear Cardinal Richelieu humming on the other side of the thin barrier separating them. "Tell me of your sins, my child, that I might absolve them."

Anne swallowed. "I...would know that I have your silence first, Father."

A pause. "As a confessor, I can speak of your words to no living being."

"You came to Court as Marie de Medici's confessor," Anne pointed out. "I would know if your loyalty to her is still as great today as it was then, before I continue."

A sibilant hiss. "As I have said, no living being will no one of your confession, not from me."

And she knew, then. Knew that the Cardinal, the same man who had risen to power as Marie de Medici's successor, liked her just as much as Anne, at the moment.

That was a dangerous man, a dangerous ally.

But Anne had no others, not at the moment.

Anne nodded. She was making her bed; she could lie in it later. She had dealt with Marie for years, and this was, she knew, her only chance to stop the torment she'd endured for so long. Her brother could not help her, and Louis would not. "I have...been covetous of something which is by rights mine, but is not mine. This has made me think uncharitable thoughts about a woman whom I should surely consider family. And I...have allowed these thoughts to turn towards darker ones. Ones that have...disturbed me greatly, of violent intent."

There was a long pause, and she wondered if she had gone too far then, but then again, words spoken in confession could not be used against her. Unless this was more than just a confession, of course. Anne had just enough time to begin worrying over that before Richelieu spoke again. "Of what things are you coveting, my daughter?"

Anne bit her lip. "Justice," she said finally, and glanced up at him through the barrier.

She thought she saw him smile. "That can be taken, child, with the Lord's forgiveness."

* * *

"There is little more that we can do for him. He is...fading, even now," the physician said gravely, as he stood before the King and Queen in the hall just outside the Cardinal's chambers. A moment's hesitation. "The Cardinal wishes to speak with Your Majesty."

Louis rallied himself, wiping at his eyes. "Of course." He took a step toward the door.

The physician cringed. "Pardon, Your Majesty, but the Cardinal wishes to speak with the Queen. Alone."

Louis' head shot back toward Anne, who felt certain that she had done a poor job of concealing her surprise. She nodded, stepping past Louis and into the Cardinal's chambers, ignoring for now Louis' petulant cries of being the King, and the one far more cherishing of the Cardinal, as she gently closed the door behind her.

The Cardinal did not look at all well.

Until this moment, she had not quite believed that he was dying, that things were quite so dire as the best physicians of France all made them out to be.

He lay on his over-large bed, body looking dwarfed in comparison, sallow cheeks sunken in so deeply he already looked dead when Richelieu's yellow eyes turned to meet her own. He tried to sit up then, and fell back weakly on the bed, looking for all the world like a weak old man, wasting away, and not the First Minister of France who had struck such terror into so many hearts.

In the dim light of the chamber, he looked like a ghost.

Anne stepped forward, hesitant now, feeling as though she were intruding into a place where she did not belong, regardless of his summons.

"I...wanted to speak with you," the Cardinal rasped out, and Anne blinked at him, rather surprised.

His lips were caked with dried blood.

She knew that he was ill, though he had been trying valiantly to hide it since the poisoning. The doctors believed that he had recently suffered an affliction fo the heart, and that it had burst and was now rapidly filling his lungs with blood, but Anne knew better. Whatever had happened at that trial, Anne recognized the signs of poison when she saw it, and knew that the Cardinal had not long for this world.

She admired that he was hiding it, though. Admired that he was able to, when she might have been sobbing and secluded in her chambers, at the knowledge that the end of her life was near, especially if she ever committed as many heinous acts as Richelieu had.

She had been praying for his soul nearly every day, in the palace chapel, when she could not make it to her normal place of prayer.

Louis was despondent, and he needed her with him as much as possible, now.

"Speak with...me?" she asked. "Wouldn't you rather speak with the King?"

Though she wasn't quite sure it was worth it, to question the Cardinal's actions of late. He had tried to be rid of her completely not too long ago, and had been working with Treville, a man whom he seemed to consider his greatest enemy, days later to help her.

His actions and their motives were as dizzying as always.

The Cardinal began coughing then, great spurts of blood into a white handkerchief, and it was some time before he answered again. "I know...I know about the letter your brother sent you."

Anne stiffened, though not quite from surprise. The Cardinal knew all, and she simply wondered how she had been betrayed. Noticing the look of alarm in her features, Richelieu reassured, "I did not begrudge you opening it. I read it first, and determined that there was no reason to show it to the King. I am sorry for your loss, Your Majesty."

Anne looked away from him, his own suffering reminding her all too well of the loss she had incurred, and of how she had not even been able to be there with her little brother in his final moments, and yet was here with one of her greatest enemies in his.

The Cardinal let out a choking laugh, then. "You no doubt would rather hear that from anyone but I."

Anne shrugged ineloquently, admitting, "I have not heard it from anyone else."

She had been too frightened to tell anyone, of the contents of the letter, and when finally the news arrived in the usual way from Spain that it's second son had died, she had feigned shock, but Louis had not felt the need to mourn, and had questioned her doing so, when she had not seen said brother in years, as though this meant that she was somehow betraying France again.

She had thought uncharitably of his mother, and how he had still clearly felt something for her, even after banishing her.

"That is unfortunate," Richelieu said softly, "Though the ones we love often are often blinded by their own desires first."

She swallowed, the words reminding her of the days when she had sought this man's counsel. Further reminding her that those days were long gone.

"I am not a child any longer, Richelieu," she told him shortly. "I do not need your lectures."

"Perhaps not," he mused. "But Louis needs you," Richelieu went on, unaware of the dawning pit of horror in her gut. "Especially now, he will need your wisdom to lean on. Most at French Court and abroad do not have his best interests in mind, and he has never truly been made aware of it."

Anne glanced at him wryly. "If he was that able to do so, or if he did ever listen to me, you would not be his First Minister, I assure you."

Richelieu barked out a laugh, but then murmured, "I will not be that for much longer," and began coughing once more. "Your Majesty, I told you that I would never alert the King to your part in the end of his mother's reign of terror. I lied." Anne sucked in a breath of surprise. "I...He has known."

"H-How long?" she breathed.

"Since...the beginning. I believed that it would...help him, to come to terms with the need to show a united front between the two of you. A marriage." He met her eyes once more. "You told me that you exercised a power over him that I would never understand, but I do not think you believed it, even then. I do understand it, and I know that he values your opinion much more than you have believed." Another pause. "Don't give him a reason to doubt you, my lady."

She glanced up, the unexpected feeling of affection and pity - affection for her husband, and pity for this man before her, who claimed to know of love - dying with those words. "I have never done so. I have not spoken a word to anyone else of those letters, and I would not do anything to harm my country, for France is my country now as much as it is yours."

He dipped his head. "I know that. I know that you think that your loyalty is secured. But I have oft found dalliances to be...more dangerous than they are worth."

She lifted her chin, pushing down her nerves. "I don't know what you're referring to."

"That is amusing, for I've known for some time. I did not wish to sabotage you, because I know a little of affection," Richelieu said softly, and Anne wondered when he had learned of that, but he continued before she could convince herself not to ask. "And I do not say this now to hurt you, my child, though you will likely think so. I do it for the sake of France." His yellow eyes met hers, and in that moment, she knew. She knew that he knew all, everything that could destroy her. "When I am gone, France will be weakened. I do not by any means believe that I am the glue that holds France together; I am the bricks. She cannot afford to have the parentage of the Dauphin questioned. Ever."

Anne swallowed, knew what he was asking. "I am not...I do not..."

"I've seen the way that musketeer looks at you. The way you look at him. I've seen how his love can kill the love a woman might bear for another man. That is all of the proof anyone might need to bring France to her knees."

The words sounded like more than just a warning. They sounded prophetic.

"I should...I should go," Anne breathed out, spinning away from him, toward the door.

"Your Majesty," he called out after her, and because she could not deny a dying man, Anne turned back at those words. "Heed my words. Do not weaken France because you did what you had to do to give the Crown a child. You merely did your duty, and you must continue to do so."

Anne's mouth fell open. "I wasn't...I didn't..."

The Cardinal waved a hand, dismissing her half-formed arguments, and Anne was rather glad for it, for she did not know what she would have said, anyway. Denying the Cardinal's words would only speak of her guilt, after all, and she did not think that she was so cruel a woman as to agree with them.

"It was well-played," the man said, sitting up a little in his bed. "You needed a child, an heir, and that time at the convent? It was perhaps the first you were alone with a man who was not your husband in some time. You took your opportunity, and rather well, I might add. He's certainly fallen for your womanly wiles, though I doubt you'd have needed that musketeer to, with his reputation. You only needed a night. Tell me, did the other musketeers watch? Do they all know how a lowly musketeer bedded the Queen of France and stuck her with his seed?"

And Anne knew that she should deny it, even if such a thing would make her look guilty. Knew that, as a queen, she should laugh him off or stalk out. She shouldn't continue this conversation.

But Anne couldn't help what she did next.

She stalked forward, and slapped a dying man across the face.

She gasped at the same time Richelieu did, pulling her hand back and staring down at it in horror, and then up at Richelieu, who had begun coughing the moment her hand made contact with his skin once more, the unspoken words passing between them.

"You see?" he whispered. "Already, you've confused your duty with absurd emotions, and I've only been speaking for oh, a few minutes now. Be very careful in the days to come, Your Majesty. My advice would be to find a way to move the Musketeer as far from you and that child growing in your belly as possible. Before it's too late."

Anne's heart sank, as she realized what he'd been doing, but she lifted her chin defiantly, and did not apologize. "I...will take your words under advisement, Richelieu. Now, I'm sure the King wishes to speak with you."

The Cardinal did not quite smile. "I am sure that he does."

* * *

"The King has agreed to help us in deposing of the Queen Mother," the Cardinal told her, as she sat down behind the veil of the confession.

She blinked. "How did you manage to convince him?" she asked, knowing of her husband's great love for his mother, regardless of her many crimes since ascending to his throne.

The Cardinal made a noise of amusement. "The King may love his mother but this most recent act of hers has managed to put doubt in even his heart."

Anne could not imagine that it had been as easy as he seemed to let on, and the thought made her shiver. It had been agreed between the two of them that Anne would convince Louis to name the Cardinal as his First Minister once Marie de Medici was properly disposed of.

When they had achieved what they wanted, the Cardinal would become the most powerful man in France, save for the King, and Anne was not entirely sure that would be a good thing. He was clearly a dangerous man.

"Good," she found herself saying, after too long of a pause. "What must we do now?"

"Nothing," the Cardinal told her, and Anne's head whipped up in surprise. "Or rather, you must do nothing but convince the king that you are a loving and capable wife, willing to give him children. He will have need of your comfort, after Marie is gone. I will handle everything else."

Anne lurched up in her seat. "You would not be in this position were it not for my support, for my brother's support in wanting his sister's child on the throne one day. You would be nothing but another church confessor without me, Cardinal. Do not think to toss me aside as nothing more than a tool for your use."

He cleared his throat. "I would never think of my queen in such a way, Your Majesty."

She swallowed hard. "I want to speak with the King."

Richelieu hesitated for only a moment. "I do not think that would be wise, my lady. He is busy in preparations for our plan. And...I do not think he should know of your involvement. He loves his mother dearly, and may come to resent you for your part in this, since you hardly hold a bond. I will speak to him on your behalf, have him consummate the marriage."

Anne ground her teeth together. "I am not going to thank you."

"Be at peace, my child. I do not ask for it."

She nodded her head. "Of course not. When, may I ask, are these plans to come into place?"

She could almost hear the Cardinal's smile, when he did respond. "I am afraid, my lady, that only those who are involved in the plot should know of such things. It is, after all, a very sensitive plan."

* * *

The Cardinal's death was...unexpected, to say the least. There were rumors that the intensity of his work had finally gotten to his heart, or that the wickedness had. Or that their Spanish Queen had orchestrated his death, though, with her blooming pregnancy with the next King of France, few dared utter those rumors about the King.

In any case, it was with some reluctance that the King turned over the task of finding nurses for his son the Dauphin to the Queen, while he properly mourned the loss of the greatest servant to France.

The Queen was more than happy to interview those thought worthy of caring for the Dauphin.

"I always heard he'd cast some withcraft about himself, for immortality," Jeanette murmured as she tied Anne's corset. "He escaped death so many times."

She sounded almost gleeful at the thought of the Cardinal practicing the dark arts.

It was, Anne knew, a thought that many of the common folk shared. She was even aware of quite a few nobles who had loathed the man.

The Cardinal was known for his loyalty to Louis, but also for his vast opposition of the Hapsburgs, Anne's own family, even going so far as to send aid to Protestant nations to deter them. The Church had not stopped pressuring him on this matter, and many had called him a traitor to his faith, though he maintained that he worked only in the service of France until the end.

Anne was not so sure.

But she did know what Lady Jeannette was doing; the Queen Mother had returned to her exile, and the Cardinal was dead; Jeannette knew that all of those years as an antagonist would not put herself in Anne's favor, now. Would not save her from the other woman's wrath, should she wish to wield it.

There was no one left to protect her, no one left to report Anne's actions to.

But then, Jeannette had known Anne for many years, and the Queen would have thought that, by now, the other woman had realized that Anne was almost incapable of anything vaguely resembling wrath. At least, not successfully.

She shook her head. "Nevertheless, the Cardinal was a great servant of France, and I will have no ill said of him in this castle."

She dipped her head, and Anne realized that the girl was getting better at this, at Court affairs. "Of course, Your Majesty." Then she smiled over at the crib where the little Dauphin slept soundly. "But we mustn't focus on such loss, when there is such joy in the world."

Anne gave her a grateful smile, wrapping one hand underneath her belly. "For the sake of my husband, the King, then," she said calmly, glancing toward the door.

Jeannette smiled. "For the sake of the King."

* * *

The Cardinal did not tell the King of her involvement in the plot to undermine Marie de Medici's power, and Anne knew that it was the right thing to do, that if he suspected his queen was anything more than a pretty face, he would become wary of her, especially after his mother's control of his life up until this point, but she still felt vaguely annoyed that the Cardinal would get all of the credit for what had happened, along with, in some part, Captain Treville of the Musketeers.

She did not let any of that irritation show on her face, however, especially when the Cardinal calmly suggested that, now that the King and Queen had control of France once more, it would be wise to consummate a marriage that had long gone untouched, for the sake of an heir.

Her king looked startled by the words, glancing nervously at Anne before stuttering out that of course they should do what they could for France's future, and asked the Cardinal to set a date.

Hardly romantic, but then, she did not expect anything different.

 _I want the Cardinal removed from his office_ , she wrote to her brother, after enduring a consummation with the eyes of half of France's nobility watching, with the Cardinal watching. We _put him there, and now I want him taken from there. He has grown too powerful, and I fear that he may become a threat to me, in the distant future._

The first letter reached her brother without being intercepted. His response reached her without the Cardinal knowing of it.

 _Send me the coordinates of France's flagships on the English Channel, and it will be done, Sister._

The Cardinal did, however, intercept her response, and Anne lost every bit of power she had thought she would gain with the exile of Marie de Medici with a single letter, as well as the trust of a husband who had only just begun to hold any affection for her.

* * *

The King had been inconsolable since the death of the Cardinal. Anne had more power during these few short weeks than she'd had during her entire time in France; the nobles looked to her now, to make decisions on her husband's behalf, as he was too distracted to do so on his own or to notice the amount of power his queen was taking on.

And she couldn't enjoy any of it. Couldn't enjoy the fact that she finally felt like a queen, rather than a prisoner in her own kingdom, for the first time since her arrival in France, because the Cardinal's words haunted her so.

She knew with certainty that, in the moment, she had not been thinking about making an heir for France when she had slept with the musketeer Aramis. That thought had not even occurred to her, but...had she been thinking it? Deeper down, where she could convince herself the thought did not exist?

Damn the Cardinal for his words.

It took her some time, thus, to convince her husband the king to go back to his duties as a monarch. He had a responsibility to his people, she tried, after the death of the Cardinal, no matter how dearly in regard her husband had held the man. Louis had told her that he could not possibly help his people without the help of Cardinal Richelieu, and so, she had only just managed to convince him to attend to his court once more.

The other plan she had put into place had been far easier, and Anne could not resist a smile as she urged Lord Edwin, a nobleman from Paris with much sway toward the Catholic Church, forward.

"Your Majesties," the noble stepped forward on nimble, hesitant feet, bowing before the King. "I understand that the...unfortunate passing of Cardinal Richelieu has been detrimental to the state of France."

Beside her, Louis stiffened, his red rimmed eyes searching the man, suddenly aware, Anne thought, that he did not have the Cardinal whispering suggestions in his ear. "Thank you for your condolences, Monsieur."

"I...If I may, Your Majesty, his passing has left a void in our government that must be seen to before France is seen as weakened by Europe, and before that weakness is taken advantage of."

Louis took a deep breath. "I do not wish to speak of such things so soon after such a dear friend's death."

"Your Majesty, this must be addressed soon-"

"A group has been sent to free one of the Cardinal's most loyal-"

"The Comte de Rochefort is not a man of God, and therefore cannot take the Cardinal's place in the time to come," another noble, this one seemingly braver than the first, stepped forward. "We therefore humbly ask that you choose from amongst those Cardinal Richelieu mentored as his successor, so that the rumors of France's...lean toward that ugly thing of the Hugenots are not given room to fester in the eyes of the Pope."

Louis sighed. "Very well. Mazarin? I think his name is, he was one of those under...the Cardinal's..." his voice choked loudly in the chamber, "special tutelage. He shall succeed him as Cardinal for France, and take up the place that our dear Richelieu left behind."

Anne bit down on her lower lip, nearly drawing blood. All knew Mazarin was as loyal to the Crown as he had been to Cardinal Richelieu. It appeared that her freedom from that man's grasp was not yet complete.

"Something troubles you, my dear?" Louis asked, turning to her in concern.

Anne forced herself to shake her head, "Only, Your Majesty, my motherly concern for the child to come."

Louis nodded. "Of course. Perhaps we shall go and visits the rooms made up for the child this evening."

"Yes, Your Majesty." She didn't say that this wasn't enough. That she hated the very thought of her son in another woman's arms, suckling another woman's breasts, for even a moment. For she could well imagine the Dauphin growing up with another woman as his mother, another woman loving him where Anne could only watch from afar.

She knew this was the course in many French royal families. Indeed, Louis' own mother had treated her son in this fashion, which, Anne privately thought, had eventually led to his coup against her.

She did not want to lose her son in the same way that Marie de Medici had lost hers.

She did not want to lose him at all.

After the court session let out and Louis returned to his rooms with a bit more vigor than she had seen from him of late, she went to her own rooms, brushing aside the idle concerns of the other nobles and calling for Lady Jeannette to be sent to her.

"Of course, Your Majesty," one of her ladies hastened to reply, hurrying away, and Anne wondered at the girl's strange behavior, but she did not have time to wonder long, for Lady Jeannette was not far away, and she came hurrying to the door.

She had been eager to please as best she could since Richelieu's death.

"You called for me, Your Majesty?" Lady Jeannette asked, stepping into Anne's bedchambers, a little bounce in her steps that Anne found rather disturbing.

Anne did not waste her words.

"I am releasing you from my service, Lady Jeannette. You have been a good and faithful servant to me for many years, and now, you ought to be able to return to your family, to move on with your life," Anne told her primly.

"I do not understand, Your Majesty," Lady Jeannette said softly. "I have only ever endeavored to be a good lady to Your Majesty, and to France."

Anne raised an eyebrow. "Nevertheless, you have been dismissed, Lady Jeanette."

"May I ask what complaint you have against me?" Jeannette demanded.

Anne lifted her chin. "You may go, Lady Jeannette. The Cardinal is dead; you have no more games to play here."

Lady Jeannette's forehead wrinkled. "I do not know what you are talking about, Your Majesty," she objected, but Anne only shook her head.

"Get out, you viper," she said softly, not meeting the other woman's eyes, and so not seeing the look on Lady Jeannette's face when she spoke.

She could well imagine it, though.

Lady Jeannette dipped into a bow. "Yes, Your Majesty."

The next morning, Anne looked over this Constance Bonacieux of whom she'd heard so much about, and then gave her a smile. "I think we shall be good friends, Constance."

Constance gave her a nervous smile in turn. "I hope so, Your Majesty."

* * *

Mazarin was not at all what she had pictured him to be, in a student of the late Cardinal.

For one, the first time she met him, he sat at a gambling table with the King, the both of them laughing.

She had never seen the Cardinal gambling, as he claimed it to be a sport that was not fit for men of God, but, she imagined that, should he ever have gambled, he would have been quite superb at it.

Nor had she ever seen him laugh.

The King, however, had a great vice in gambling, often giving out more than he should in his losses, though those who played against him never once acted as though he was the losing party.

Cardinal Mazarin, she could see from just a few minutes of observance, was a man of cards, and played his well.

The King had asked if she wished to observe the card playing, for Anne only played seldom, and then when she was sure of her odds, and she had not wished to refuse him, not when she was so full with child that it was rare she was ever allowed from her rooms. Indeed, she had heard the physician and her midwives start to speak of lying-in, and she would take every excuse for a few more days of freedom, could she.

The King said something; Anne was not paying attention, as, just then, the child within her womb kicked against it and she let out a gasp of surprise at the feeling.

Mazarin laughed at whatever it was the King had said, throwing back his head and letting his long hair fall back against his neck.

The kick of the child within Anne's womb seemed faint now; she hardly noticed it as she stared, mesmerized, at the man's hair, jolted suddenly into a memory of Aramis, his own head thrown back as he laughed.

She could not say where she had seen this particular memory, or why Aramis had been laughing so openly in her company, and yet, the mere image in her mind made her face flush.

And then grunt with pain, in a very unladylike manner, as yet another contraction swept through her.

"Your Majesty?" the King turned to her, eyes full of concern. "Is...something wrong?"

She had been reliably informed by the midwife that contractions such as these did not mean she was about to give birth, as she was still a month ahead of full term and often they were simply a false alarm. She should only be worried if they came every couple of minutes, indicating that the child was near.

And she did not want to return to her rooms, to be locked away again in sheer boredom, so Anne simply waited for the pain to pass.

Anne bit her lip as another contraction rushed through her before answering. "I...I am feeling a bit peaked, Your Majesty," she answered grudgingly, not wanting an excuse to be sent to her chambers once more, and this only served to make Louis seem more concerned.

"Perhaps one more hand, and then Her Majesty should retire?" Cardinal Mazarin suggested, and Anne sent him a grateful, though somewhat pained, smile.

The King nodded. "Yes, yes, very good, Cardinal." He glanced down at the cards in his hand. "I have rather a good feeling, about this round."

The Cardinal smiled. "Very good, Your Majesty."

And then their hands were dealt, and Anne watched with more interest than she thought the situation warranted as her husband and the new Cardinal played their next round, for nigh into the next hour.

The King stared, flabbergasted, as the Cardinal won all from him, and those courtiers watching gasped and whispered amongst themselves as the Cardinal took all of the winnings.

"I..." Louis seemed at a loss for words, and Anne would have found the situation amusing if it not was not so dire that the Cardinal should win from the King in such a humiliating manner. "That was...well won, Cardinal. I must confess, I did not understand your last few plays until now."

The Cardinal gave an almost embarrassed smile. "I do not deserve such accolades, Your Majesty, as I fear that is a trick I was taught by my own father, long ago. To make reparations, I would like to give the winnings back to the Queen, for her good grace at being able to stay and watch until this game had ended, when we know her to be tired, merely to indulge the two of us."

Anne blinked in surprise at the words, glancing first at Louis, and then at the Cardinal. "That is a most generous offer, Cardinal, but one that I am afraid I must decline. They are your winnings; you should not be ashamed to lay claim to them."

The Cardinal turned to her then, eyes boring into hers - brown, dark brown, almost black, just like Aramis', such a contrast from Louis', which were hazel - and gave her a gentle smile. "Your Majesty, I must insist."

Anne blinked. "Very well then, if you insist, I shall accept them. I thank you, Cardinal, for your gracious heart."

He dipped his head as Anne stood to her feet and held out a hand for one of her ladies, feeling wobbly on her feet as a wave of dizziness swept through her.

And then she felt water spurt down between her thighs, as yet another contraction claimed her.

(She wondered if the child would have chocolate brown eyes, like Aramis.)


	7. The Dauphin

Anne screamed, entire body tensing with pain as her ladies and the physician moved about her; blurs in the twilight. She felt such intense hatred for all of them, a hatred she had never even imagined herself capable of feeling, of the kind which she did not even feel for Marie de Medici, as another terrible pain swept through her and she screamed once more, her body shaking with the exertion that followed the pain.

"Your Majesty," she heard a male voice call out to her; the physician, as no other men were to be allowed into the room during the birthing. "Your Majesty, you must breathe."

She wished to tell him what exactly he could do with such advice, but forced down her anger and took a deep, shuddering breath as her body trembled.

"That's it, Your Majesty," the physician's voice was beaming. "Again."

She pretended, at the beginning of the labor, not to notice the midwives' fear, the physician's worry, that her child was not being carried to full term, but instead was to be born that very day, a month and a half too early. Pretended, even as she sat in the bed and pushed out this child, that she too was not terrified over what might come out. Pretended that she was not worried when sixteen hours had passed since her water had broke, and still the child had not deigned to show its face to the world.

The physician was only called into the birthing chamber if the labor was concerning, and that had worried Anne at first, too, but she could not bring herself to be worried about it now - indeed, the only thing she could think about was the child within her, stubbornly refusing to come out, and, strangely enough, the blood staining her beautiful satin sheets beneath her.

If it would be a healthy child, or another stillborn, another beloved child ripped from her arms before she had even had the chance to hold it, buried in the ground. Another decade of Louis' disappointment and indifference toward her, that she had failed him in her one great duty as his wife.

She could not live through another dead baby. She would rather die in childbirth than witness that, Anne resolved, and this time, she pushed as hard as she could, with no regard to her own pain, even as contractions and the sensation of her body ripping from the inside out wrung through her, and Anne let her head fall back against her shoulders, ignoring the sweet feel of cold cloths against her forehead.

All that mattered was that the child was born, and born alive. She could worry about her own comfort once that deed was done, though she was so tired, so weak...

She let out another scream as her body was racked with contractions, close in number and too painful, and then, from far away, she could hear the physician calling, "I can see the head, Your Majesty. Another good push, Your Majesty."

Anne screamed, the sound wrenching itself past her throat and into the hot, cloying wet air around them, clutching the sheets of her bed - ruined, now - and pushing with all that she had left of her strength, praying that this would be the last time she was forced to do so today.

And then, to her utter relief, the sound of a babe's cry.

Anne screamed out again, and felt the child leave her fully, along with another gust of blood, before arms were wrapping her up in warm towels and blankets, and wiping her forehead and giving her water.

She swallowed, spitting out the blood from where she had bit down hard on her lower lip, and then glanced up at the flurry of activity around her, for she had not yet seen her child.

"Is...Is the child all right?" she asked, but the people around her, other than seeing to her immediate needs, seemed to have no notice of her whatsoever, and she could see nothing beyond a blur of white and motion.

"Drink this, Your Majesty," a midwife was saying, and something was shoved against her lips, which tasted bitter and cold, but Anne drank it all the same.

"What is it?" she asked quietly into the noise that followed, as several ladies leaned her back against her pillows and bade her relax herself. "Is the child all right?"

She got no answer then, either, and felt something like desperation welling up inside of her. There was still time, if she had lost her child. Still time to go out with dignity, but precious little of it left.

"What is it?" She was begging now, but she didn't care.

"A boy, Your Majesty. Your Majesty has given birth to a healthy son." And then the physician was there, holding the child out to her, wrapped in swaddling cloths and sleeping soundly despite the flurry of noise and activity around him, and, for the first time in her life, Anne knew what it was to be in love, truly and completely, at first sight.

* * *

"What is happening in there?" the King demanded, pacing the length of the Queen's outer chambers, his eyes wide and features nearly manic.

No one could provide him with an answer, and so no one, out of the many courtiers and others waiting with him, dared to speak.

Athos had been called to guard the King tonight, for with the birth of a new heir there was always the fear that someone would attempt to harm the king, and thus gain control of the child. At the time, it had not been known that the Queen's labor would last long into the night and into the next morning, but Athos had accepted the mission from Treville anyway, even knowing that Aramis would never forgive him for it.

He had seen the fevered worry in the man's eyes, the longing, when Treville had ordered Athos to the palace right in front of him, had held out an arm to hold him back when Aramis had moved to volunteer himself, knowing full well that, if he did not, Aramis would find an excuse worthy of his taking Athos' place in guarding the King.

He had seen Aramis' wounded expression as he rode away, to take his assignment, and known that it would take Aramis some time to forgive him for this.

But he had done it anyway, and now he stood beside the King, waiting almost as nervously as he for news of the Queen's condition, and that of her child. He knew that Aramis would want to know everything that happened, even if he claimed he did not, and France would want to, as well.

He had taken the assignment because he knew that, were Aramis in the room now instead of himself, listening silently to the painful wails that seeped through the walls of the Queen's bedchamber, hour after hour of them, never ceasing, until the Queen's voice was raw with pain and frustration, Aramis would not be able to disguise his fear for the lives of the Queen and her son, would not be able to disguise that it was a fear born of something more than loyalty to the monarchy.

Athos doubted that, after listening to what he was now hearing, the receiving room tense as a crossbow, he would be able to think rationally about such things, would even remember to do so.

Even now, Louis was frantic with worry for his wife and their unborn child, and any courtier might have noticed a similar expression on Aramis' visage, when their own were so carefully blank.

And he had taken the assignment, in part, because he did not want Aramis forming anymore bonds to the Queen and the child struggling to come out of her than she already had. He knew that it was a cruel, almost heartless, thought, on the hour of the child's birth, but it was also a kindness, and the only kindness he could think to give, in the moment.

Aramis loved passionately and violently, and things like monarchies and husbands never stood in the way of that love. But Athos would damn well try, if he thought he had a chance of protecting his friend from what would come of any deeper of a connection than the Queen and his friend already shared.

The hours dragged on.

And, finally, a woman stepped out the door.

"What is happening?" Louis demanded, rushing toward her.

She fumbled into a curtsey, bursting out, "Your Majesty, Her Majesty the Queen is suffering a difficult labor. The child...the child has breached, which means that the delivery, when it happens, will be very hard on her. We will have to turn the baby, but it may come to a decision between the Queen's life and the child's." Louis choked out a sob at those words, and the woman's face twisted in sympathy. "If it comes to that, we must already have your decision."

Louis nodded, his eyes filing with tears. "The child's, of course," he murmured, glancing down at the floor. "It's what she would want."

The woman curtseyed, and hurried back into the delivery room.

 _You coward_ , Athos thought his first real ambivalent thought toward the man he had sworn to protect, though he was careful to give the King an encouraging nod when the distraught man glanced his way.

* * *

Aramis was drunk.

It did not happen often, surprising as that seemed amongst their brotherhood; Aramis was always the last of them to fall drunk, always the one to drag the others home. Athos was the drunk one, and Porthos would fall drunk occasionally, but Aramis preferred to keep his wits about him at all times, for, he claimed, the ladies' pleasure.

And besides, he would usually point out, someone needed to drag their sorry arses back to the garrison, at the end of the night.

Tonight, though, it was not even fully evening, and Aramis was drunker than D'Artagnan had ever witnessed Athos being, brooding into his cups and not looking up once, not even for the flirtatious bar maids' attentions. It was...disturbing, to say the least, to see his friend in such a state, and yet, neither Athos nor Porthos seemed very disturbed by it.

When he mentioned it, softly, to Porthos, the big man merely shrugged, turning back to his poker game and telling D'Artagnan that it was likely that he'd had another lady break his heart. It happened often enough, and it was hardly a cause for concern. He'd be over it in the morning.

But D'Artagnan had witnessed the many times that Aramis and one of his paramours had fallen out, and he didn't think he had ever witnessed it quite this bad, before. He didn't think he had ever seen Aramis fall this hard.

She must have been very beautiful, indeed.

"'Ello, musketeer," one of the barmaids sidled up to D'Artagnan, smirking at him as she laid a hand on his shoulder. "Don't suppose you'd like to go somewhere more...private?" she asked, eyes glancing down his body.

D'Artagnan of even a month ago might have flushed at how forward she was and incurred the amusement of Porthos or Aramis.

D'Artagnan of today thought of Constance, of her refusal of him in lieu of her husband, and took the lady's hand, kissing her fingers. She gigged and pulled him to his feet, out of the large room and toward the back stairs of the inn, toward the bedrooms.

"What's your name?" she asked him, with a leering smile, and he answered quietly, "D'Artagnan."

She smiled back at him. "I'm Amaria. If you want me to have that name, of course."

This time, he did blush, for he very much wanted her to have another name. "That-that's fine," he stuttered out, and she smiled and nodded at him, reached for his trousers.

D'Artagnan pulled back suddenly, and found himself staring at Constance's face. He swallowed thickly, pushed away from this woman with a small apology, citing that he'd had rather too much to drink.

She gave him a knowing look, but didn't protest as he walked back to where Porthos and Aramis were still sitting, Porthos with a beautiful young woman in his lap now.

"Didn't agree with ya?" he asked D'Artagnan with a knowing look. The others knew by now what had transpired between him and Constance, though it was an unspoken agreement between them by now not to speak of it.

D'Artagnan shook his head. "I think I'm gonna head back to the garrison," he told Porthos quietly, before jerking his head in Aramis' direction. "You got him or should I?" In Porthos' lap, the barmaid frowned, batting her eyelashes at Porthos, who visibly wilted. D'Artagnan started in Aramis' direction.

Porthos put a hand on his arm. "Leave it," he ordered, voice gruff, and D'Artagnan stared at him, surprised at the tone.

"He's going to get himself killed, walking home alone like that," he hissed at the other man. "Someone should go with him."

Porthos shrugged. "He's not going home. And he'll be fine."

D'Artagnan blinked at him, about to ask how Porthos could know that, when Aramis suddenly collapsed in front of the far wall, leaning his head against it, and drawing his knees up to his chest.

Porthos did look worried then; D'Artagnan saw him shoot Aramis an odd look from where he was dealing cards, but he didn't get up from his card game.

"What's wrong with him?" D'Artagnan asked.

Porthos gave D'Artagnan a long, searching look, and it struck D'Artagnan then that Athos was not so very drunk as he appeared, nor so very drunk as he usually was, this late in the evening.

"I said leave it, D'Artagnan."

D'Artagnan shook his head, chair screeching as he stood to his feet and came over to where Aramis was sitting, kneeling on the floor beside him.

"I think it's time for you to go home, friend," D'Artagnan said softly, and Aramis blinked blearily at him.

"Home," he repeated the word D'Artagnan had said, his tone lightly mocking. Then, "Yes, yes, I think it is."

* * *

Her son was beautiful, from the moment he left her womb to enter the world.

Perfect.

She smiled down at him as the nurses held him out to her, taking him from their arms and holding him against her breasts, even if he would never drink her milk, and smiling down at him with a joy she had never felt in her life, save for those few moments when Aramis had helped her make this child.

He had Aramis' chocolate brown eyes. Her wispy blonde hair, though she knew that both of those things could change easily enough, so early on.

She didn't want them to. She didn't want anything about this moment to change, ever.

She had seen the worry in the midwife's and physician's eyes, as she delivered her child. Had known that there was some danger to what was happening, even if they would not tell her what it was.

"Your Majesty?" one of the midwives murmured, and Anne glanced up, unable to contain the happy smile on her face.

"Hmm?" but her attention was soon pulled back to her child once more, as if she could not quite bring herself to look away. Even his cries for his mother's milk merely assured her that he lived, he breathed, he was real, he was hers.

"The King must see the child now. It is tradition," one of the midwives informed her, as if she did not already know, "And then a wetnurse must see to the child's needs. You must rest."

Anne's heart skipped a beat. "A moment more," she pleaded, and was glad enough when the woman merely nodded and stepped back, when she was granted these few scant more moments with her beautiful son.

"You are going to be a king one day, little Louis," she whispered as she bent down to kiss her son's wispy curls, just loud enough for him to hear. Their little secret. "But you will always be my little boy." And then, lifting her head, "Send for the King."

The midwives exchanged glances. "Your Majesty, that is not how-"

"The King wishes to see his son," Anne told the woman. "Send him in. The damage is all gone now; there is nothing left that cannot be looked upon," she murmured, even as her sheets were changed where she lay.

The midwife sighed. "As you wish, Your Majesty."

She knew that they were merely indulging her strange demands because she had just given birth, but Anne couldn't bring herself to care as her gaze fell down to the babe in her arms once more.

When she looked up again, Louis was standing in the doorway of her chambers, staring in shocked awe at the naked bundle in her arms.

"Your son, sire," Anne whispered, in a stronger voice than she thought herself capable of at that moment, and tilting the child in her arms, that Louis might have a better look at him.

"My son," Louis breathed, staring down at the tiny babe in Anne's arms as if he barely believed her words. "I have a son!" He turned back to his courtiers, and then looked down at the child again. "I have a son."

Anne smiled, feeling tears stinging at her eyes. "Yes, my love. A son."

* * *

The moment Athos returned to the garrison, exhausted in a way he did not normally find himself after far more taxing assignments than the one he had just returned from, he was nearly accosted by Aramis, blinking in the harsh sunlight of the early morning, face pale and eyes bloodshot.

For a moment, Athos found himself regretting that he could not at least have told Porthos of what had happened in that convent, for the sake of Aramis' sanity when he had been called away to the King the night before. Someone had clearly needed to watch out for him.

"Athos?" Aramis asked, following him into the barracks and Athos' simple room, closing the door behind them both.

Athos sighed and hung up his musketeer's jacket and sword, before turning around to find Aramis standing directly in front of him, so close he almost tripped over the man.

He wondered how much Aramis had drank the night before; he smelled like a pigsty.

"It's a boy," Athos said quietly, relenting at the look of concern on his friend's face. "The Queen has given birth to a healthy boy. The Prince."

Aramis faltered, and then reached for the rosary in his shirt, kissing it and whispering _'Gracias a Dios_ ,' under his breath, and Athos could see tears in the other man's eyes.

He turned away for a moment, allowing Aramis the time to regain his composure, before saying, with an apology in his voice, "The King has ordered us to travel to Spain, to free a prisoner there of some importance."

Aramis grimaced. "Athos, I..."

"The trip should not take all four of us," Athos offered softly, gently. "The Captain will need someone to train all of these green recruits, after all."

He did not expect to find himself with an armful of happy musketeer, in the next moment, for, though they were brothers and very dear to one another, they were not exactly so physically affectionate, especially not with Athos, who was a pillar of rock rather than a man, according to Aramis. Athos awkwardly wrapped his arms around Aramis in turn, squeezing his shoulder.

"It's going to be all right, Aramis," he promised his friend, though he did not know by what right he made such a promise, or how in God's name he planned to keep it. "It's going to be all right."

The words felt like a vow.

* * *

Anne had to remind herself that, had the Cardinal still been living, the governess chosen for her son would have been someone far worse, but that didn't stop her from resenting this mousy woman who thought that she could walk into Anne's chambers and take away her son without a word to his mother. A woman whom Anne had been given no choice in, and who had been chosen not because of any particular skill in caring for children but because her father was a lord whose current load of grain was of interest to Paris, and therefore the King.

The girl - Marguerite - stepped into the room, staring straight at the babe's crib set up in the lavish nursery fit for a dauphin, not even noticing that Anne was sitting at a table behind her, scratching out a few polite letters to courtiers who had recently visited the palace and watching her child like one of her husband's hunting falcons might watch its prey.

Or perhaps that was how she was watching Marguerite, who did not even glance around to see if anyone had somehow entered the room and therefore endangered the Dauphin before reaching out to pick him up like he was a sack of potatoes, rather than a baby.

Little Louis instantly awoke from the quiet nap Anne had just managed to put him down for, bursting into great, shaking sobs.

"What do you think you're doing?" she demanded, standing from her desk and crossing her arms.

Marguerite looked up, blinking in surprise, and Anne winced at the almost careless way that she was holding the Dauphin now, as though she had forgotten all about the child in her arms, who's life was far more precious than her own.

"I..."

"Answer me. Now."

"The King wanted the wet nurse to see to his-"

Anne stalked forward, reaching out to pull Marguerite's hand up higher under her son's neck and giving it a warning squeeze. "You will ask me before taking my son anywhere on your own, and you will kindly remember that you hold the Dauphin of France in your arms."

Marguerite gulped. "Yes, Your Majesty."

Anne scrutinized her. "Have you ever had experience as a governess before?"

Marguerite swallowed hard. "Yes, Your Majesty. Though they weren't..."

"Babes?" Anne inferred, and, at Marguerite's nod, sighed. "Babies are far different from older children, governess. You are holding a life in your hands, fragile and helpless. I pray that you remember that in the future, or I will find a way to ensure that you do."

Marguerite swallowed. "I won't dare harm the Dauphin, Your Majesty. I swear it."

Anne lifted a brow, and then sighed, acknowledging that the last few days had made her incredibly irritable. Her breasts were aching from where they were bound, her need to feed her child stifled by some common woman, because in France, such things were below queens, and the realization of how little control she truly had over her own son's upbringing was only further impounded by Marguerite's arrival.

She supposed that it was not truly the girl's fault that she had no experience with childrearing, or that she had been chosen for this position.

Anne quietly adjusted Marguerite's grip on the child, and smiled gently down at her little boy as he began to calm, imagining that it was from her own touch rather than the changed grip.

"You have to support his head," she told the governess. "And he isn't glass, to break at your touch, but don't squeeze him like that, either."

Marguerite swallowed. "Apologies, Your Majesty."

Anne graced her with a smile, leaning forward. "I was nervous the first time I held a baby, too," she admitted.

Marguerite looked surprised at that, as though she couldn't quite imagine the Queen being nervous about anything. If only she knew. "Really?" she asked, eyes rather wide.

Anne nodded. "Of course. Soon, it'll be easy for you."

Marguerite smiled. "I hope so, Your Majesty. I've found myself to be ever so nervous, these first few days."

The words did little in the way of assuaging Anne's own worries, but she merely nodded and left her child alone with his new governess, a pit of dread in her stomach that she could not quite pinpoint.

* * *

"He doesn't look very much like me at all, does he?" the King asked suddenly, peering down at their little son with the same infectious smile he had whenever he had the baby removed from the nurseries to look at for a few moments at a time.

Anne smiled. "I am sure he will grow into his father's good looks when he is older, Your Majesty," she reassured her husband, who smiled at her before his attention became once more riveted by their son.

Sometimes, she wondered if perhaps her husband the King suspected.

He was not usually a subtle man; he wore his emotions clearly on his whenever they came and went, and his temper was even quicker, and so she thought that she was probably safe.

And yet.

And yet, sometimes, as he was holding her son, he would remark how unlike his father the child looked, and Anne would swallow hard and simply say that he would grow into such looks, surely.

As she wiped a mop of dark hair out of her son's eyes, she had no doubt of that fact.

Her son would one day look very much like his father.

And Anne did not know hot to prepare for that eventuality, what she would have to do to convince the King otherwise.

"There's been a report of the musketeers' return with that agent of the Cardinal's, Your Majesty," one of the heralds announced, and Louis was suddenly handing little Louis over to Marguerite and striding from the room, Anne following after him with a heavy heart, a little relieved by that news.

The news of Rochefort's arrival at French Court was welcome indeed, and Anne was almost beside herself with the news that her old friend would be returning to France from his captivity.

She found her old friend much changed from the man she had known so well, however. There was a harshness about him that she did not remember from before, though she supposed that this could be due to the horrible treatments he had endured under the hands of the Spanish. The feast held in his honor upon the night of his return was a subdued one, not because the people of France were not known for their obnoxious parties, but because Rochefort himself remained quiet and almost politely disagreeable throughout it, his presence over the room almost as strong as the Cardinal's had once been, though it did not affect Louis, or their son, in Louis' lap, who prattled on regardless.

When Rochefort was given command of the Red Guard, Anne despaired of ever being able to speak with him alone again, as she had been angling for from the moment she learned of his return to France.

And then, when she was alone in the nurseries with little Louis, he finally sought her out.

She heard the knock upon the door, too heavy to be a woman's and therefore likely Aramis', who had taken advantage of every opportunity to visit his son since the moment of the child's birth, much to her frustration amusement, and turned around with a large smile, only to blink in surprise when she saw the real visitor.

"Your Majesty," he dipped his head into a bow. "I did not mean to disturb you."

She shook her head, putting thoughts of Aramis from her mind. "Not at all, Comte. I have wished to speak with you since your return."

He stepped further into the room, at those words, peering at the child in her arms for all of a moment before returning his attentions to her. "I regret that I have caused Your Majesty undue angst, then."

"You are welcome home, Rochefort. You have suffered cruelly," Anne whispered, a repetition of her words the previous day, and she hoped that today they would sink in, and he could hear the emotion behind her voice, making him smile gently, somehow feeling the need to reassure her, despite the fact that he had been the one imprisoned.

"The thought of Your Majesty's grace and beauty sustained me through my long hours of confinement." He repeated the words he had spoken to her immediately upon his return, and she smiled.

"My lady," he spoke, and Anne stiffened.

Stiffened at the tone in his voice, once she had heard many times as a child, when he was still her teacher, and lectured her for some wrongdoing. And she knew that another lecture would be quick in the coming, were she not the queen. Then again, she was unsure that this would stop him.

"Rochefort," she turned around then, putting on her fakest smile, she maneuvored in front of the crib in a way that would, hopefully, not appear suspicious. It was not that she did not trust the man, only that she could not bear the thought of anyone with a sword coming near her child.

Anyone but Aramis, that was. It seemed she could trust that musketeer with anything. "What are you doing here?"

Rochefort took a step forward, and then paused. "I came to see you, and the young Dauphin." He leaned forward, peering down into the crib. "And to apologize."

Anne glanced down at her beautiful son, hardly able to tear her eyes away from the child these days. Then the Comte's words sunk in.

"Apologize?" she lifted her head. "Whatever do you have to apologize for, Rochefort? You have served us faithfully as Captain of the Red Guard since your return, and have suffered so greatly in return for all of your services." Her eyebrows suddenly tightened in concern. "You are not...leaving, are you?"

Rochefort smiled, and there was something about that smile that worried her, something she could not identify in his features. Something...not quite right. "Of course not, Your Majesty, and it warms my heart to hear that you find my help so infallible. No, I came to apologize for failing you many years ago, and in a far greater manner."

And then he was on his knees before her, head bowed as if he went to his execution, and Anne let out a little gasp at the display.

"Comte, are you quite well?" she asked, taking a nervous step forward and reaching out her hand.

The Comte took it, kissing her fingers lightly before lifting his head and looking into her eyes. "Your Majesty, I have wounded you deeply by failing to remain in Court here by your side, where I belonged. I can see now the disarray my actions have caused, by not being here to guide you, as I vowed, and to be a confidante when you had none. I will accept whatever punishment you deem worthy of such a terrible offense."

Anne blinked in shock. "I...Rochefort, no punishment is necessary. You were in the service of my brother, and he sent you to the service of the Cardinal. We all do our duties."

Rochefort breathed a sigh of relief, standing once more. "You are most gracious, Majesty," he whispered, voice hoarse. "And I will not fail you again."

And then he was gone, leaving Anne to wonder what had just happened.

Behind her, the babe let out a little gurgling sound that might have been near to a chuckle, and she spun to him, letting out a little laugh herself.

"I wonder what that was about?" she asked the child, picking him up and pulling him comfortingly into her arms. The babe didn't answer, only started sucking on her finger, and she let out a breath of laughter.


	8. An Ordinary Man

"How could your men have _allowed_ this?" Anne demanded, indignation coloring her tone. This was...unbelievable. That the musketeers had not only taken the King into a dangerous tavern in Paris, but then allowed him to be kidnapped, in the dead of night! And that Anne had no knowledge of this foolish plot until then.

"The King was adamant that he experience Paris as a commoner," Treville reported, and she might have heard the resignation in his tone at any other time, might have pitied him.

"Then they should have made clear to him the utter stupidity of his suggestion!" Anne shouted.

"We can't entirely blame the musketeers," Rochefort cut in, in an attempt to calm her. She was certain that she would be grateful for it later; she was not so now. "When the King demands something, it is...difficult to refuse."

Her husband was a whimsical man, and she knew all too well his tempers, brought on by the slightest of offenses. But the musketeers were there to protect him, and, in her mind, this meant standing up to him, if need be, not allowing him to walk into the fray.

She took a deep, calming breath, resolving to thank Rochefort for helping her see some small amount of reason. Later. "You have searched everywhere?" she demanded of Treville.

The Musketeer's Captain nodded.

"Even..." and bless her, she could hardly bring herself to voice the thought instantly at the forefront of her mind. "The brothels?"

Who knew what had been in his mind, drunk and foolish enough to dress as a commoner in the middle of the night?

And on the day before his son's christening. Had he no care for the child whatsoever? Was he so self-absorbed with this little scheme that he had completely forgotten his own child?

A thought occured to her then, which she immediately buried down. Perhaps the King could sense...could sense that he had nothing in common with the child, and therefore had no interest in him.

She gave a frightened little laugh. Of course not. There was no way her Louis could possibly suspect...

"Yes, Your Majesty," Treville said quickly, seeming to find the topic just as distasteful as she did. Anne forced herself to remember what, exactly, that topic had been.

Ah, yes. Whether or not her husband had gone to the brothels.

"Then where is he?" her voice rose again, but this time, she could hardly bring herself to care.

"Let's not forget, the King is not alone," Treville counseled, in another attempt to calm her. "He has D'Artagnan."

Oh yes, a great comfort. One of the musketeers who had allowed him to go on this foolish little trip was still with him. One man, against any in Paris who might have a grudge against the King. Which, she had to admit, must include a great number.

Apparently, Rochefort shared her sentiments. "Who has so far failed to return the King to the palace."

"If you are implying that D'Artagnan has neglected his duty, you are wrong," Constance interrupted then. "He is the King's Champion."

"I don't care if he is alone or with D'Artagnan," Anne snapped before anyone could point out that Constance's place was not to argue with Rochefort. "I only care that he is not here. The Dauphin's christening is tomorrow. Guests are arriving, expecting to see the King, whose absence will be a scandal!"

In truth, she was not sure she did not care for this more than the fact that her husband was missing. Indeed, it hardly mattered when he was here; what little attentions he paid to the Dauphin and to his Queen were few and far between, and what little time he spent at his duties even less so.

Oh, this was so like him, and anger bubbled up in Anne's chest before she could push it back down.

Royalty would be there, from nations across the world. From Spain. If the King was not there, there would be questions as to why that was. Questions that would imply ambiguity toward the parentage of the Dauphin, though not in so many words.

Her heart was beating far too wildly in her chest and for one, terrifying moment, she thought the whole world must know her secret.

She took a deep breath, rounding on Treville. "You will tear the city upside down, and find him," she ordered. "Wherever he is." And she tried to pretend that the thought of her husband, the King, hidden away in some brothel did not break her heart.

Treville bowed, quickly taking his leave and she hoped, for his sake, that he found the King quickly.

She was not one to stay calm, in such situations. Oh, she kept her head, but she could not deny her anger at this moment; at the King, at the musketers, at them all, unjustified though it might be.

"Perhaps in the meantime, we should let it be known that the King is ill," Rochefort suggested. "To explain his absence from Court."

Anne breathed a sigh of relief, the thought having not yet occured to her. "Thank you, Rochefort. Those are the first sensible words I've heard this morning. See to it."

Treville opened his mouth, as if to object, when Rochefort interrupted, "I'll have the Red Guards join the search. We will find the King."

She looked away, not wanting to see the compassion in her old mentor's eyes. And then the door opened, and Marguerite was bringing her son into the room.

She gave the governness a smile, genuinely pleased. The woman always knew what it was Anne needed, and the sight of her son, though distantly reminding her that his christening was on the morrow, also helped to calm her. She took the babe from Marguerite's arms and nodded. "Just...find him," she said quietly. "Before the christening."

Treville nodded, executing a short bow before turning on his heel and leaving her alone with Rochefort and Marguerite.

Rochefort turned a concerned gaze on the queen, where she stood murmuring into the dauphin's ear.

"Your Majesty, there is something I think we should consider, as the King's situation could perhaps be...dire," Rochefort said carefully, and she glanced at him.

She had a terrible feeling that she already knew what he was going to suggest, for it had already crossed her mind, and yet, she waited, nodded expectantly.

* * *

"It's the right decision, for you and France," Rochefort assured her.

She had written the whole of the letter. Why it was so difficult now, just to sign her name, she didn't know. The King had forbidden her from continuing to write to her brother, and yet she had done so.

Perhaps she knew, deep down, that signing her name would only make this all the more real.

She glanced at Constance, if only to hear her own doubts reflected in the woman's words, for she knew that Constance Bonacieux would not hide her opinions on the matter. And she knew that Constance was not in favor of this arrangement at all. She had been very vocal about that, when Rochefort first suggested it, though not, Anne couldn't help but notice, before him.

"Perhaps you should wait, Your Majesty. If the King returns..."

"The King might already be dead," Rochefort interrupted, levelling Constance with a glare that Anne did not have the time to interpret.

"I don't believe that!" Constance snapped.

Ah, yes. Her unshakeable faith in her musketeer, D'Artagnan. Still, her words caused the doubt in Anne's heart to grow.

If the King was dead, and she did not send a letter pleaing for help to her brother immediately, France could be thrown into chaos. There were those who would attempt to reach for the throne, threatening the life of her son.

This was the best option, the safest. Her brother's armada, the strongest in Europe, would protect her from nobles vying for the throne, from the English.

And yet...And yet, if he was not dead, and returned unscathed, a miracle, at this point, to find his wife writing to her brother after he had expressly forbidden her from doing so...

It would be treason.

"D'Artagnan will bring him safely home," Constance tried again.

"It was D'Artagnan who lured him into trouble in the first place," Rochefort argued, and though the words sounded bitter, Anne certainly understood the sentiment. She did not believe this had been done out of malice, but the truth of the matter was that D'Artagnan had not protected his King as he ought, or they would not be in this situation.

Rochefort turned pleading eyes on the Queen. "Hesitate now, and it might be too late. With your brother's protection, you can hold the throne until your son is ready. It is his birthright."

And it was those words that convinced Anne.

It was not her son's birthright. He had the birthright of Anne herself, as a princess of Spain, and of a poor musketer in the King's regiment. But he would sit upon the throne of France, and she would be damned if she allowed anyone to try and harm him. So she would sign these letters, and take the chance.

"Rochefort's right," she said calmly. "I must protect my son."

Just after she signed her name, Rochefort slid the parchment carefully from her. "I will ensure it is delivered to the Spanish ambassador," he promised, and she only gave him a nod in response.

For her son. She would do anything for her son. She would even die for him, if she must. And she had to believe, now, that Louis himself was dead, or she just might be given the chance to prove it.

She reached for Constance's hand then, seeking comfort in the girl, even though she had disagreed with her.

And Constance gave it, as she always did.

As she signed the letter, Anne reflected that, other than Rochefort, Constance was perhaps the only true friend she'd ever had.

* * *

He had thought he would never have to see her again, that last time. Had known, from the fear in her eyes when he issued his threat, that she would leave Paris and never return.

They were not in Paris. Why was it that God had cursed him with such a woman?

D'Artagnan had to admit, seeing Milady in the Spanish camp where men were kidnapped to be used as slaves should not have surprised him so much as it did.

Still, it did, and far more so, when she let them free, claiming to be a changed woman and wishing only to help.

He did not trust her. Could not, after everything she had done. After he had watched her hold a musket to Constance's neck, had listened to her words against Athos' honor; Athos, a man whom he trusted above all else.

And yet, she had freed them, and they had no other chance but to run. He knew that she was plotting something, that she would only ever do something like this for her own means, and yet, there was not time to figure out what, exactly, this was.

They ran into the woods, abandoning the other kidnapped souls who had only sought to help them escape, but his duty was to the King. To getting him to safety, no matter the cost.

"Get down, Your Majesty," D'Artagnan ordered, shoving him down behind a rock and hoping that he would not take offense.

It was the sort of thing which might have made him angry, despite the fact that it was done to save his life, he supposed.

He spun, sword in hand, only to be faced with...Milady, astride a horse, two more at her side.

She smirked. "I thought you'd never stop running."

d'Artagnan hated the sigh of relief that escaped his lips, sending Milady a fierce glare before gesturing for the King to come out of hiding.

The King moved out from behind the boulder then, and D'Artagnan pretended not to notice the way he was staring at her; as though she were an angel come to rescue them.

He had no doubt that was her intent.

"Quickly," she said finally, meeting the King's eyes with a dazzling smile, "we must hurry."

D'Artagnan helped the King into his saddle, and then jumped into his own, giving Milady a terse nod of thanks, though it rankled him to do so.

She only continued smirking, and they rode away in tense silence, though d'Artagnan did not dare to take his eyes off of her, in the very likely case that she had some nefarious plot underway.

He did not know how long they rode; Milady seemed to know where she was going, and he only had a vague recollection that Paris was North.

Eventually, the King began to complain, loudly, and d'Artagnan let out a long sigh. For a moment, he thought he saw his own feelings reflected in Milady's expression, but she quickly covered this with a smile toward the King.

At least, if it did only destruction otherwise, it managed to get the man to fall silent.

There was a noise behind them; the sound of horses' hooves, and d'Artagnan straightened in his saddle, the other two turning to see what was wrong.

"Wait here," D'Artagnan said suddenly, and pulled his' and the King's horses to a halt. "I'll see if anyone's following."

It went against everything he was to leave the King alone with Milady de Winter, but he did.

And it was a mistake that he would regret for the rest of his life.

He hurried on ahead, swearing softly under his breath at the sight of the approaching horses, though he could not see who road them. However, given that they came from the direction of the slavers' camp, he had a good idea.

When he rode back, he did not even notice the way the King held Milady in his arms, too preoccupied. Or, if he did, he was too disgusted to think of what it might mean.

He knew from Athos, as well as his own experience, what a temptress she was. The thought of her in the King's arms almost made him sick.

Though he had decided, during this jaunt, that he felt more pity for her than true anger. Yes, she had threatened the life of the woman he loved; and he woudl never forgive her for that, but she had stooped to such levels now to stay alive...

He shook that thought from his mind, slightly disgusted with himself.

"There's someone coming. Get back, get back." And they rushed into the bushes.

"Give me your pistol," D'Artagnan snapped at Milady, once again at her mercy. And he knew all too well that she carried that pistol. The one that she had used to threaten his beloved. When she hesitated, he snapped again. "Give me your pistol, now."

"I keep this, only to protect myself," he heard her assure the King, as she handed it over.

He rolled his eyes, the feeling of the pistol so wrong in his hands. The pistol that she'd held against Constance's pulsing neck, now his only defense against slavers.

The horses kept coming up the trail, and d'Artagnan had a feeling that he had only minutes left to live.

Then he recognized Athos' hat.

"Oh, am I glad to see you," he breathed, as his brothers in arms burst into the clearing.

"Is the King safe?" Athos demanded without preamble.

The King moved out from behind the boulder with a self-satisfied smile on his face, and d'Artagnan noticed the way the others breathed in relief at the sight of him.

Athos moved down from his horse before the King began speaking again. "Allow me to introduce our savior," he said, and d'Artagnan was hard-pressed not to roll his eyes once more, "We owe this lady our lives."

And then Milady was moving out from behind the bushes, carrying herself like a queen, rather than the vile woman d'Artagnan knew her to be, and smirking at the identical expressions of shock on the other musketeers' faces.

Athos froze; d'Artagnan was watching him closely.

"Your Majesty," though he had spent the last few days becoming well-acquainted with the King's reasoning, or lack thereof, he felt the need to at least try, "she was part of the criminal band that kidnapped you in the first place. She should be held for questioning."

Milady turned doe eyes on them.

"With respect, Your Majesty," Aramis tried, voice low, "we don't know what other crimes she's committed."

The King sighed. "This humble woman has shown true nobility of character. Her crimes...are hereby pardoned."

Out of all the looks of shock on the faces of those listening, Milady's was perhaps the greatest...or the least sincere. She dropped to her knees, clasping the King's hands in her own, and d'Artagnan found it difficult not to reach for the pistol she had given him moments earlier.

"You have made a new woman of me, Your Majesty," she whispered, and he sighed, moving away before he rolled his eyes in front of the king.

She would not be so foolish as to try something now; not after the King had just pardoned her, after all.

Athos followed him. "Did she really save your life?"

He sighed, hating to admit it. "For her own reasons, but yes."

Athos opened his mouth, but he did not have time to answer, for the slavers appeared then, coming out of the rocky hillside on their horses, guns shooting off shots toward the king.

"Get the king to safety!" Athos shouted, and then drew his pistol, shooting into the mass of men following them as the King climbed up onto his horse. D'Artagnan moved to take the horse beside him, but Milady was there first, grabbing the horse by the reins and looking expectantly at the musketeer. The King glanced back impatiently.

With a sigh, D'Artagnan helped her up, giving her a warning glare that he doubted she would heed, before turning back to the fray.

He knew he couldn't trust Milady de Winter with the King, of course, but he wouldn't be able to trust her with the King for very long if they didn't take out these slavers, and she wouldn't do anything so stupid as harm the King when she had just received his pardon, after all.

The fighting was short and brutal, and by the end of it, D'Artagnan had quite forgotten his annoyance with Milady for annoyance at the almost cheating way in which these men fought.

He was the first to hear the scream, a scream they had heard often enough from the King's own lips when he did not get his way, amplified ten times.

Athos moved quickly, grabbing the gun from d'Artagnan's waist and bringing it around to bear on the culprit.

Porthos jumped down from his horse, sword in hand, and Aramis was already waving both of his legendary pistols at the woman.

"Your Majesty!" D'Artagnan shouted, struck with horror as he watched the King's body slide to the ground at Milady's feet. The King let out a gurgling sound, alerting them to the fact that he was still alive, and Athos pulled the trigger.

Milady screamed, from pain, not surprise, and Athos turned dreadfully pale as the sudden realization of what he had done sunk in.

He had not been able to kill Milady twice, and yet had shot at her now without a thought.

She was not dead.

Milady let out another scream, falling to her knees but still clutching her knife in front of her; protectively now rather than murderously, and d'Artagnan had to admit, he preferred the look on her face.

The bullet, it seemed, had only grazed her shoulder when Athos had fired; strange, for, though Aramis was the better with a pistol, Athos never missed a target.

The King continued gasping; his rapid breaths the only sound.

Hardly knowing what he was doing, d'Artagnan moved forward, ignoring Porthos to stay back. He grabbed Milady by her left wrist even as she moved to cut him, twisting it savagely behind her, pistol trained on her, though he knew Athos' and Porthos' were, as well.

Milady bit back a cry, glaring at him but not resisting, her knife falling from her fingers and into the dirt. Stained with blood.

He had never wished harm upon a woman before; he was a Gascon, after all, but he suddenly wished very much harm on this one for what she had done.

Attempted to kill the King, and, by the look of him, had already succeeded.

Aramis dove underneath the line of fire, moving to the King's side and checking his injuries while the others attempted to subdue Milady. Armed with only a knife, she didn't appear to be giving up anytime soon.

Aramis' face paled as he took in the extent of the King's injuries, though his hands moved frantically in an attempt to stop the bleeding, and, though d'Artagnan could not see them himself from his position, he knew by the steady gasping that the King was not well.

He cringed at the sight of Aramis digging into the King's injury, before the man cursed loudly - in Spanish - and started stripping off part of his shirt beneath his uniform.

Athos was moving forward then, shocked out of his stupor at Milady's actions, her own pistol in hand, Porthos right behind.

Athos, with a detachment to his actions that even d'Artagnan noticed, grabbed Milady's wrists from d'Artagnan and began to bind them with rope.

She let out a snort, and d'Artagnan came very close to hitting her, in that moment. He stepped back, however, reminding himself that she had wounded the King.

She would see justice in Paris for it.

"You are a fool," Athos hissed in her ear, loud enough to echoe through the small valley. "What have you done?"

But Milady had eyes only for D'Artagnan in this moment, it seemed, watching him with an expression akin to the one she'd had when she singled him out in that inn in Paris.

The King let out a distressed cry, and all eyes turned toward him, Milady's the widest. Clearly, d'Artagnan thought with some annoyance, she had not expected him to still be breathing.

Aramis moved feverishly, binding the King's neck wound with the bottom half of his shirt, pressing it tightly to stop the flow of blood.

But there was so much blood...

"It's all right, Your Majesty," Aramis breathed, still frightfully pale, "Hold still." His hand on the King's neck wound pressed deep enough to cause another clot of blood to stain the shirt, but he didn't seem to notice, leaning down and breathing into the King's mouth.

No one spoke, watching in terrified fascination as Aramis breathed for the King, the King's breaths coming slower and softer now, though his chest still heaved.

"Aramis," Porthos snapped warningly, and d'Artagnan wondered if Porthos knew something about Aramis' shaking fingers that he did not.

Aramis took a deep breath, pulling back. "He will not survive the journey home," he said softly, "or to the nearest place of safety."

The King let out a whimper at that proclamation, and Aramis turned his attention back to his patient.

"Dammit!" Porthos shouted, the words reverberating through the forest, the others having apparently forgotten that they were likely being tracked by slavers...

"Your Majesty," Aramis tried again, reaching for his flask of ale, "stay still."

D'Artagnan had to morbidly wonder why he kept telling the King this; it was painfully obvious that any sudden movement only brought the man more pain.

He poured a few drops of ale - much less than he'd even done to one of their own wounds - onto the King's skin, and the man let out a scream of pain.

"Aramis!" Athos barked.

Aramis glanced up, tears shining in his eyes. "He's...he won't..."

The King grabbed Aramis by the arm then, pulling him down close, though his eyes were closed. "Anne..."

And then, what other words he might have said stolen from his lips, he fell silent.

"He's dead," Aramis said finally, dumbly, not bothering to look up at the others. "The King is dead."

He sighed lowly, reciting the Catholic creed that he favored so highly when dealing with the dead. Even, d'Artagnan had oftened noticed, with the bodies of enemies.

His mind refused to process what was happening, even as Athos placed a hand on his arm in warning.

He knew only one thing. Well, two.

It had been his duty to protect the King. Milady had slit his throat, like an animal. Slit the throat of their King.

"You!" D'Artagnan moved forward then, a righteous anger overtaking him as he raised the musket to the level of her eyes. Athos, still holding her by the arm, did not move to stop him.

"You won't do it," Milady snapped. "The King pardonned me of all my crimes before he died."

He snorted. "I highly doubt those included ones you had yet to commit."

"D'Artagnan, please," she begged then, voice suddenly as sweet as it had been the very first day he met her. "Have mercy."

"Like what you offered him?" d'Artagnan demanded hotly, ignoring the cautious look that Athos sent his way.

Porthos grunted, and, though he did not sound very convincing, reasoned, "d'Art, we need her alive. France will want justice for the King's death."

"No," d'Artagnan hissed.

Athos took a step forward. "D'Artagnan..."

"No!" he shouted, a bit too loudly this time. "No, I want to know why she did it." He never took his gaze off of Milady.

"I...I didn't want to murder him," Milady went on, eyes softening on D'Artagnan as her lower lip slid into a pout. "I just wanted...freedom."

"So you thought to murder the King of France?" D'Artagnan bit off each word, unable to keep his gun hand from shaking.

Milady's eyes were frightened now, and she fell to her knees before them, truly surprising them all. "Kill me if you wish, if you believe that I did this of my own volition."

"We have the evidence before our very eyes, Madam," Athos said coldly, but Milady did not bother to look at him.

"But know that I did this in the service of another, and you will want to know who that is before you take my head," her eyes sparkled. "And you know I will not take the journey back to Paris."

"As I said, we've no intention of taking your head. You're going back to Paris with us, to answer for what you did here."

Milady only smiled. "I think not." She lunged forward, and suddenly there was a gun in her free hands, though it was not the same one from before.

D'Artagnan blinked, wondering where she had been hiding it, and then the cool metal of a pistol was pressed against his forehead, even as she pulled him toward her, with a smirk.

"Stupid boy," she hissed in his ear, hand twisting savagely in his hair as he gasped for breath.

For a moment, he wondered if she would kill him merely out of spite. The thought of going wherever she planned to, as her hostage, was so appalling he knew he'd rather die then and there.

Athos and Porthos froze. They could have probably disarmed her, should they wish to, but not without blowing off D'Artagnan's head first.

Aramis, still knelt over the dead body of the King, reached for one of his gun's, returned to its holster, and Milady glared, cocking the gun against d'Artagnan's head.

"There's nowhere to go, Anne," Athos beseeched her then, no longer threatening her with a gun, but looking genuinely scared that she had killed their King and could now just as easily kill d'Artagnan.

D'Artagnan only hoped that Athos would one day forgive him for this, for failing so greatly.

"Let him go, and I will do what I should have done long ago." He blinked, and d'Artagnan was surprised to see that his eyes were shining. "Anna..."

She glared, tightening her grip on d'Artagnan to the point of pain. "You think they will allow me the mercy of a quick death? My master would have given me that much, at least."

Athos eyed her. "So you have found a new benefactor," he said. "No one in France is as powerful as the Cardinal once was. No one has the ability to save you from the hangman's noose. Come back with us now, without a fight, and it will be easier for you."

Her lips twitched into a smirk, but d'Artagnan could feel the way she shook against him.

"This is my fault as much as yours," Athos continued softly, as if approaching a frightened animal. "I am responsible for you, for everything you've done..."

Milady blinked up at him, her features suddenly shifting as they had when the King had offered her pardon. "Will you promise me something if I agree to come willingly?" she asked then, gun hand twitching.

Athos stared at her, face betraying and agreeing to nothing.

"A quick death," Milady pleaded. "It is more than my master will give me when he finds out that I failed."

"It doesn't look as though you have failed, Milady," Aramis bit out, still kneeling by the King for fear that she would shoot d'Artagnan if he stood. "And the manner of your death would be decided by the Courts, not by Athos."

Milady snorted. "You know nothing of my master, Aramis," she spat scathingly.

"I did not think to find you amongst Spanish slavers," Porthos interrupted then, eying her suspiciously. "Who is this employer of yours?"

Milady just lifted her chin, eyes only for Athos now, the gun rubbing against d'Artagnan's forehead almost soothingly. "No one you need concern yourself with, if you wish to keep the boy alive as you failed to do with your king."

Athos swore, moving forward slowly and ignoring the way she tightened her fist in d'Artagnan's hair. "I would save d'Artagnan if I could, but I will kill you if I must."

Milady rolled her eyes. "Please. You have tried to kill me twice already, and have failed in each endeavor."

"Do you remember the words I spoke to you in Paris?" Athos asked softly. "I told you that if we met again, you would die. I am a man of my word, Anne."

She squinted at him, as if considering her options. And then she was moving far too quickly for the musketeers to follow, and d'Artagnan had to wonder just how extensive her training for the Cardinal had been, for desperation to make her faster than the King's men.

Her gun fired, and, for one horrible moment, d'Artagnan was sure that it had hit him, that he was dead now, for a quick shot to the head should have surely killed him quickly, but then he realized that he felt no pain whatsoever.

He forced his eyes open.

Porthos was running to Aramis' side, where the man now lay sprawled in the dirt beside the King, covered in blood.

It was not, d'Artagnan had a spare moment to think, the King's blood, and Porthos let out a grunt as he surveyed the damage. Athos swore, firing off his gun at Milady without a second thought, but she only dodged it, a sick grin on her face as the bullet slammed into a tree behind them.

"The King of Masks sends his regards," she hissed in D'Artagnan's ear, and then tossed him forward, into the dirt, the butt of her pistol slamming into the back of his head.

Aramis let out a shout, somehow mustering the strength to throw one of his knives in her direction before collapsing into the dirt once more, but Milady ducked behind a boulder at the last moment.

The world was hazy then, and d'Artagnan vaguely realized that someone was shouting his name before hearing another gun shot, seeing Aramis fly forward hit the ground beside him, blood spurting across d'Artagnan's uniform as the man fell; blood that d'Artagnan knew did not come from himself.

Athos' musket fired off then, and they all heard a scream. It sounded, to d'Artagnan, like a woman's scream, though he couldn't be certain.

And then he wasn't certain of anything, for a while.

* * *

When he awoke, and this was not for some time, he supposed, for the stars hovered above him where there had been sunlight before, d'Artagnan let out a groan of pain.

Unlike his usual awakening, the memories of what had happened before he fell unconscious hit him instantly, and d'Artagnan sat upright, groaning at the throbbing pain in his head but managing to ignore it.

"D'Artagnan!" a voice which was not familiar, at first, called out, and then hands were reaching for him, pushing him back down onto...a saddle.

He was asleep, strewn across a horse's saddle, still galloping without a care to its rider's movement.

And then he realized that he was not alone on this horse.

Treville's hands pressed against his forehead, and then around to the back of his head, where a rather large bump had manifested, thanks to Milady's efforts. He grimaced, instinctively flinching away.

"The King?"

Treville glanced away, and that was when D'Artagnan saw the other horse, Aramis' horse, he thought, though Aramis was not on it, and he couldn't understand why until he remembered that Aramis too had been injured.

Instead, strewn across the saddle and covered with Treville's cloak, lay the King, his eyes closed as if in repose, though D'Artagnan knew differently. Dead. The King was dead.

And beside him, Aramis.

D'Artagnan froze. "Aramis?"

The Captain let out a sigh. "He lives yet," and if D'Artagnan had any relief left to feel in that moment, it lodged it's way in his throat as his eyes swept over Aramis' bloody forehead and stained clothing, red with life but draining still.

"Milady..." he murmured, finding it rather difficult to concentrate on the situation at hand.

"Athos and Porthos went after her, d'Artagnan," Treville said calmly. "She was injured during the fight. I have faith that they will not return without her."

D'Artagnan groaned, trying once again to sit up. "Have to...the King..."

Treville's face, if possible, grew even more somber. "The King is dead, d'Artagnan," he said, rather shortly, and the youngest musketeer let himself fall back onto the horse, boneless.

 _The King was dead_.

The full enormity of his failure seemed to hit him then, leaving him breathless and weak, but he couldn't focus on it, not now.

"Aramis?" he finally asked, though he now found it rather difficult to form any words.

Treville shook his head. "We need to get him to a physician, as soon as we can. But returning the King to Paris is paramount."

D'Artagnan did sit up then, glancing at Aramis' still body on the horse behind him, at all that blood. It almost made him sick to look at, for he had never seen Aramis so pale.

Treville hesitated. "It was not your fault," he said finally, as D'Artagnan dragged his eyes away from the sight before him and back to his Captain. "None of you. You did well, D'Artagnan."

D'Artagnan swallowed numbly. "I've failed. I'm not worthy to call myself a musketeer. I never was."


	9. The Death of a King

"Your Majesty," Treville bowed his head, removing his hat to hold it over his heart. Behind him, his men, sans Aramis, Athos, and Porthos, of course, quickly dropped down and followed suit, recognizing the somberness of the situation.

He thought he saw d'Artagnan flinch under Rochefort's questioning gaze, and wondered whether this was from the thought of his failure, as he so clearly blamed himself for the King's death despite that no one else could, or the wound he had refused to see to before going before the Queen.

The Queen stared at him, eyes already lit with a horrible suspicion as she demanded, "Where is my husband the king?"

Beside her, standing like a snake poised to whisper poison into her ear, Rochefort gave her arm a light, barely noticeable squeeze. But notice it he did, if only because he was watching her intently, for any signs that she might not be able to bear this.

"He...was slain in our battle against the Spanish slavers, Your Majesty, and his wounds were great. Forgive me." Treville said softly.

"My God." The Queen's hand lifted to her mouth, two silent tears slipping from her eyes. She made as if to spin away then, but paused, staring at her sleeping child in Constance's arms.

Treville pitied her, that they had to come at such a time and tell her this dreadful news. He knew well enough that she and the King were not close; most of France knew this, and yet still she mourned him, as they all did.

"Did he...suffer?" she asked softly, barely able to choke out the words.

Treville bit his lip and then lied to his Queen. "His death was swift and painless, Your Majesty."

She let out a halting sob then, as if this news was worse than knowing he was dead, before turning away and clutching desperately at her stomach.

Rochefort rounded on Treville rather suddenly. "Your musketeer was tasked with the safety of the King, specifically. It is his duty as a musketeer to lay down his life for your king, as necessary, and yet he displayed a level of ineptitude that is shocking in its entirety these past few days, culminating in the death of your King on your watch!"

D'Artagnan took a step forward, hand moving subconsciously towards his sword as Rochefort continued in his tirade, but Treville ordered him back with a word. Rochefort was not yet done.

"He, and, by extension, you, have failed in your duty to the King of France," Rochefort snapped coldly. "He is not fit to call himself a musketeer, and brings disgrace to your entire regiment. I hereby revoke his commission to the Musketeers, and-"

"Only the king has the ability to do that," Treville interrupted then, finally seeming to have found himself. He glanced at his youngest musketeer; there was a grim sort of determination in d'Artagnan's face that most certainly boded ill, and yet the boy did not speak in defense of himself.

"And now the King is dead," Rochefort snapped bitterly, clearly not put off his course by the reminder. "Because of that young man!"

Still, d'Artagnan withstood Rochefort's tirade without a word, and Treville could only imagine the guilt washing through him; it was certainly as great as his own.

"D'Artagnan fought with honor for the King until the very last, and was only obeying his orders. We did what we could to protect him, and one of our own lies even now with the physician, near death," Treville cut in, choking on that last word. "And it is the Queen Regent who must now decide the fate of a musketeer, even one such as D'Artagnan. Your duties are of an advisor and soldier to the Queen, not her keeper," Treville said, as if lecturing a young child; it was his usual tone with King Louis.

Rochefort's eyes flashed. "You dare to lecture me?" he demanded, stepping forward with a hand on his sword.

"Enough," the Queen's gentle voice interrupted them, and the men in the room instantly fell silent upon the command of their Queen. "Rochefort, I am grateful to have you by my side always, for I know I can trust you. But I would hear the truth of this." Soft eyes fell on Treville. "I trust the injured man will live, Captain?"

Treville sighed, a newfound respect for the Queen blossoming then. Even in the face of her husband's death, she thought of a wounded musketeer.

He had once thought her compassion a charade, merely to endear her to the people. Now, he could only believe it to be a true facet of her.

"He was...injured, Your Majesty, almost fatally. He is with the physicians as we speak. It is too early to tell whether he will survive the wound, but he recieved it in service of his King, loyal to the end." He shot Rochefort a glare as he said these words, and the man actually had the shame to look abashed, if only for a moment.

"One hurt musketeer is not our current concern, Captain, for all that he clearly attempted his duty with honor," he said finally, ignoring the look Anne sent him. "Her Majesty is very kind, but we would know of the King."

Anne took a deep, shuddering breath. "Tell me what truly happened, Captain. Leave out nothing, for know that doing so could cost you not only your commission, but your life, as well."

Treville sighed. "D'Artagnan is not the one to blame, Your Majesty. He followed his orders to the best of his ability, and defended the King valiantly, as any of the musketeers might."

It was times like these that made it difficult to gauge just how good of a liar Treville was, he thought with wry bitterness. He wondered if Anne had ever understood how good his ability was.

"The King and D'Artagnan managed to escape from the Spanish slavers, only to be caught in the woods by a group of them. I and several men under my leadership found them there, but we were set upon by bandits. D'Artagnan," and here he motioned to the thick red line across D'Artagnan's throat, courtesy of Milady, "was injured, and unable to defend the King." He sighed. "If the fault lies with anyone but the King's murderess, it is with I, for failing in my duty and not reaching the King in time."

The Queen let out a hiccuping sob then, turning away and clutching her son from the crib, pulling him tightly against her chest and refusing to meet anyone's eyes.

But before another word could be spoken, d'Artagnan stepped forward, dropping to one knee and bowing his head in shame. "Your Majesty, I must..." he ignored the looks that the other musketeers sent him, taking a deep breath and ploughing on. "Captain Treville is...mistaken, in his interpretation of the situation."

He waited on his knees then, much to the horror of his fellows, and something like the dark amusement of Rochefort.

Damn the boy.

"I am entirely to blame for the death of the King, as I failed in my duty as a musketeer to him, and left him with one who wished his harm, and I cannot let another take my blame for what happened to him on my watch, despite the hardships of the days previous. I may have been injured deeply, but it should not have kept me from defending the King. I...the woman who killed him, the murderess, I left His Majesty alone with her for only a few moments to go and scout for trouble, not believing that she would..." he swallowed. "That is to say, I will accept whatever punishment you deem necessary, Your Majesty, so long as you know of my sincerest-"

The slap that resounded throughout the hall startled even Treville, and he stared with wide eyes at the Queen, her hand still white as she pulled it away from d'Artagnan's rapidly reddening cheek.

D'Artagnan flinched, but didn't pull back; there was some small part of Treville that had gained the awful knowledge that the boy thought he deserved it, almost seemed to want the pain.

Her lip quivered for a moment, before the Queen schooled her features once more, and glared at Treville.

"Is this true?" she demanded, voice uncharacteristically cold.

The Captain took a deep breath, wondering if Gascony pride would truly be the end of him today, and if the boy had even realized the situation he had just placed them all in. "Your Majesty, D'Artagnan-"

"It is as I said, Your Majesty," D'Artagnan said quietly. "Captain Treville was not there to witness my failure, and believes that I speak out of my own shame, but I told you nothing but the truth of what occurred."

She let out another sound between a sob and a laugh, glaring between the two of them. Treville fell silent.

Rochefort's eyes narrowed, not at the explanation, but at something Treville had stated, earlier. "A _murderess_? I was not aware that these slavers had _women_ in their employ."

"We have encountered her before, Your Majesty," Treville continued, now looking only at the Queen and ignoring Rochefort altogether. "She is most...dangerous, and harbors a vendetta against our men."

"And she is not dead?" Rochefort demanded, voice almost shrill.

Treville paused. "She...escaped, during the melee, though we believe she was gravely injured."

"Can your musketeers do nothing right?" Rochefort muttered under his breath, but the Queen was hardly listening to their words.

Constance, from her place beside the Queen, stepped forward as though to comfort her, but Anne jerked away, holding her child all the tighter to her chest, as if she were afraid that Constance might try and take him from her.

She looked just then to be as young as she had when she first arrived in France, wide eyes staring from the musketeers, to Rochefort, to her child, as though she wasn't certain who to look to for help, but knew that she was unable to do this on her own, in her current state.

"We will let it be known that he died during an...unfortunate illness, or there will be questions as to what His Majesty was doing in a Spanish slave camp, that could invariably lead to war with Spain, a war that we are not prepared for as yet," Rochefort suggested then, and Anne was glad for the competence of at least someone around her.

She nodded, still not turning around, her attention solely on her son. The King was dead. Louis was dead.

And her son was not even a reminder of the man she had lost, for he was not even his.

For the first time since it had happened, she felt genuine guilt for what she had done. Then again, she would not now have a son if she had not.

"The King is dead," Rochefort said quietly. "Long live the King."

And all eyes turned to the child in Anne's arms.

Anne turned, gave Rochefort a wan smile, and then turned her attention back to the matter at hand. "I cannot make a decision today regarding your musketeer's fate, Captain. Leave us, and I shall make a decision regarding what is to be done to avenge my husband in two days' time."

Treville dipped his head again. "Yes, Your Majesty."

"Send your best men, sans young d'Artagnan, after this...woman who slaughtered my husband in cold blood, and bring her to me."

Treville nodded. "I have already sent them, Your Majesty."

"Rochefort, the Dauphin's...the King's christening and...coronation," she choked on the word, "shall have to be moved back and our guests appeased. See to it."

Rochefort nodded. "Of course, Your Majesty."

And oh, did Treville not wish to slap that smug look off the man's face. Even in the face of the king's death, he did not even pretend to mourn the man, so long as the Queen was not looking at him.

And now, he had the Queen's undying gratitude, and stood at her side, not like a soldier, as he was, but as...

He did not dare to finish that thought.

It was as the Captain turned to go that the woman once again surprised him. "And Treville?" she called out hesitantly, causing him to turn. "Do let me know of the fate of the man who so valiantly attempted to save my husband, and was injured."

He nodded. "Of course."

* * *

The day after the King's death was met with rain, pouring from the heavens as if God himself mourned Louis' death as much as the rest of France.

Anne knew she should be at the chapel, in prayer for her husband's soul, but she could not bring herself to go.

Anne could not bring herself to leave her son's chambers that day, for, though she had not loved her husband as she loved Aramis, and yes, she knew now that she did indeed love the musketeer, he had been her husband, her king, and, at times, her friend.

They had practically grown up together, and their love for each other very much reflected that of the brother and sister Anne had always considered them, strange marriage as that was. They had weathered their battles as best they could, what with the growing animosity between France and Spain, had worked so hard to carry on France's legacy, had cared as deeply as Anne privately thought her husband was able to about someone else about their people.

And then her husband had gone and gotten himself killed playing at being a commoner.

She would not lie. Sometimes, she thought of what it might be like, to be a commoner, to be a normal woman whose life did not revolve around producing an heir and international secrets, and so she could not fully fault Louis for wondering the same.

Her ladies tip toed around her that day, bringing her meals which she did not eat, and tending to her son when they could manage to pull him from her arms.

She had realized, with the death of Louis, how terribly vulnerable they all were.

How terribly vulnerable she was, for having sinned against God and her husband, when her husband had died of no wrong but his own ignorance.

And now Aramis lay in the barracks of the musketeer garrison, dying of his own wounds incurred when protecting her husband. How cruel God was, to punish her like this.

And her son...Dear God, what might become of him? If any had so much as an inkling of what she had done to have him...

"Has Your Majesty come to a decision regarding justice for the King's death?" Rochefort's voice broke through her morbid thoughts, as he swept into the room and ordered the women out.

Marguerite sent Anne a reassuring smile before picking up the Dauphin - nay, the little King - and carrying him out with her. Constance followed soon after, though the look she sent the Queen was one more akin to concern, at leaving her alone with Rochefort.

Which was foolish. Of course the Queen would be safe with her most trusted companion.

The doors slid shut behind them, and the Comte and Queen were alone for the first time since he had returned to France.

"I do not want to think on this now, Rochefort," Anne said carefully, turning back to her vigil at the window. "I have just lost my husband, and the King of France, and I wish only to mourn him and be with my son."

"As is your right, Your Majesty," Rochefort answered calmly, and she could hear him moving closer, behind her. "However, your husband's unfortunate death must be avenged. If Your Majesty is not seen to act swiftly and decisively against those who caused his death, there will always be rumors..."

Anne glanced up sharply. "What are you implying, Rochefort?"

He swallowed. "No more than any nobles with a grudge against Spain will imply, Your Majesty. You sent letters to Spain, asking for ships and soldiers, and now your husband, the King of France, is dead."

Anne's eyes widened. "You told me to send those letters!"

"Indeed," Rochefort dipped his head, "And you were wise to heed my counsel, for you cannot hope to keep control of this country alone. However, you must also prove yourself loyal to France, and punish those who allowed your husband the king to be killed, or there will always be those who will believe that you were complicit in His Majesty's death, so that Spain could take France for themselves, and they will take action."

Anne gasped. "It was not the musketeers who killed my husband, Rochefort."

Rochefort nodded. "Of course not, Your Majesty, but the musketeer d'Artagnan was responsible for the king, and he was killed on d'Artagnan's watch. It will be considered a mercy if you do not have all four of those who were there executed for allowing their king to die."

Anne bit back a sob. "That...woman was truly responsible for my husband the King's death." Her face hardened then. "I want her found, Rochefort. Send your entire Red Guard if necessary, but find this woman and make sure she is brought back to Paris, to be executed for the crime she committed."

Rochefort bowed. "Of course, Your Majesty. However, you had Treville send musketeers-"

"I do not know that I trust them to get the job done, when they hesitated before," Anne snapped irritably, and instantly regretted it at the look that crossed her old friend's face. She sighed. "Forgive me, Rochefort, I-"

"There is nothing to forgive, Your Majesty," Rochefort responded coolly, taking her own, silky hand in his and pressing a light kiss on it. "You are understandably upset by the recent events. Trust that I will track down the loathsome creature who committed this crime and bring her before you. But in the mean time, France must see her Queen strong after the death of the King, as must our neighbors, so that they do not dare take advantage. You must act with what we do have."

She sighed. "And yet, I do not want to."

"We must all do things we do not wish, Your Majesty," Rochefort said softly.

She nodded sagely. "You are correct, Rochefort, of course. I am glad to have you here with me, in my darkest of hours." And she did not say that, though she valued his presence, she would have preferred another's.

He gave her a reassuring smile, eyes crinkling at her compliment. "I am glad to be of service to my Queen."

She truly did not know how she would have survived with this sudden burden on her shoulders, without Rochefort by her side.

* * *

"Oh, Rochefort, please, I need you, I want you-" the woman panted, her breasts heaving in the too tight corset she wore as she trembled on his bed.

"No," Rochefort growled, lurching to his feet then, and the painted, pretty whore gave him a look of confusion. He spun away from her then, pacing. "I don't want you begging. You're the Queen of France. She doesn't...she won't beg."

The woman frowned at him, and he forced himself to remember that she was only being paid for this, was not Anne and would not intrinsically know her ways, no matter how much he wanted her to. "But I thought you wanted her - me - to want you."

"I do!" he snapped, turning back to her then. She flinched back, and Rochefort sighed. "Her husband has just died. I want her to...I want to comfort her, somehow."

The whore smiled. "Well, I think that I can..." she moved forward then, reaching out to him in supplication. "Rochefort," she started, but he moved then, putting a finger to her lips.

He closed his eyes then, breathing in her scent with a smile, her need, her yearning for comfort, for him.

But - no. It was wrong, so wrong, he realized, as she opened her mouth to say his name again.

"Don't speak in my presence again," he told the woman who was not quite Anne, for he couldn't bear the sound of her voice, not Anne's.

The whore pouted, but only for a moment. He had paid her well enough that he suspected if he had asked her to throw herself from the palace roof, she would do it. So she simply smiled, and pulled him back onto the bed in silence.

And that was enough, for now.

* * *

"Don't lose hope, D'Artagnan. I will speak to the Queen again when she is...recovered, somewhat, and see that this travesty can be solved in some way," Treville told him, when they had returned to the garrison and far from the accusing eyes of Rochefort and the pained eyes of their new Queen Regent.

Treville walked up to his office then, and d'Artagnan found himself feeling utterly alone.

Mostly, for he found his feet dragging him in the direction of the infirmary, where Aramis lay, injured and possibly dying.

Because of him.

Some part of him knew that wasn't fair, as Porthos had said, though his heart did not want to admit it.

Milady had done this, had killed their king, and yet d'Artagnan could hardly separate this from the fact that he had been the one to let her. That, after she had sliced open Louis' throat, she had gone for him, and he had been too weak to fight her off.

To kill her, as he should have done the moment he laid eyes on her again.

The door to the barracks' infirmary swung open, and d'Artagnan stepped hesitantly inside.

There were very few still here. A man whose eye had been sliced open by one of the slavers; one of the men Treville had brought with him on the rescue. A recruit, arm cut rather brutally from his first mission, and Aramis.

Aramis, lying wounded on the farthest bed, wounded because D'Artagnan had been unable to kill a woman.

Unlike the others, his injuries were hardly superficial, and D'Artagnan winced slightly as he took in the sight of his brother, bleeding from his stomach and his forehead, eyes closed and body covered in a thin sheen of sweat and blood that smelled of death.

D'Artagnan lifted the back of his hand to his nose as he came closer, as he watched the garrison physician sew Aramis back together with hands far steadier than D'Artagnan's own.

And then the physician left, giving D'Artagnan a sympathetic smile, no doubt as yet unknowing of D'Artagnan's blame in the matter, though he was sure the garrison would know of it by the end of the day.

And D'Artagnan was left, staring at Aramis' body as he took in few, shaky breaths, too long of pauses in between each one.

He couldn't do this. He couldn't sit on his hands and do nothing, couldn't keep thinking about what had happened today, and in the days preceding it.

He had to do something.

But D'Artagnan couldn't bring himself to move, as he waited for Aramis to wake.

* * *

The King's Will was very clear: Anne was not to be named Queen Regent after his death, for he had seen what the ambition of a mother could do to tear apart a country, and he did not believe Anne capable of such horrible responsibility. He requested that a council be made, of men who would protect his son with all of the love and care that they could provide France, men who could be trusted in such a position.

Naturally, the Duke of Savoy offered his candidacy, as brother-in-law to the King, before the King was even in his grave, somehow knowing of the Will before Anne herself had even read it. She could only thank God that his brother had not done the same.

"I cannot fight this," Anne said, voice hollow. "It is the Last Will of the King. To go against his last request as my first order... I have lost France, Rochefort. We have lost France. A Council will raise my son, not I, and I will never be able to see him unless I ask their permission. He won't trust me; he won't..."

Rochefort was squinting down at the parchment. "The Duke of Savoy will tear this country apart for his own means. Merging Savoy and France will make him the most powerful man on any such council, and his first act would be to take any and all power away from you, Your Majesty. We cannot allow it to occur."

Anne swallowed, turning back to him. "What can we do? I will not become known as another Marie de Medici, stealing my son's throne for myself."

"It is not his throne until he comes of age, Your Majesty," Rochefort explained calmly. "His betters must mind it until then." He rubbed his thumb over his upper lip then - something Anne remembered him doing when he taught her of French Court, lost in thought over it - before continuing. "I believe that we can seize the power of Regent without violence, relatively easily, with the right support."

"And whose support would that mean?" Anne demanded.

"Cardinal Mazarin," Rochefort responded, without hesitation. "If we have the support of the Church, the other members of the Council could be...persuaded, to fold their own power, Your Majesty."

Anne stared at him. "The Cardinal," she repeated, voice blank. Then, "I have spent many years playing fire with a Cardinal, Rochefort, and was nearly burned beyond redemption for it once. I will not risk such a thing again."

"I understand that, Your Majesty, but Cardinal Mazarin is not Richelieu. I genuinely believe he has France's best interests in mind, and understands that, right now, its best interest is you. He also has Spanish interests, and has had for many years, which can only help you."

"And when the best interest is not in me?" Anne demanded. "In several years, when my power is consolidated and he does not have enough?"

Rochefort shrugged. "Then you must give him what power you will now, and ensure that he remains indebted to you and unable to reach for more. And, when the time comes, you must take back that power."

Anne blinked at him, confused, and Rochefort went on, "Make him the First Minister of France, beneath your tenure as Queen Regent, as Richelieu was for the King. And let him know that he has this position only because you wish it, for now. With the support of the Church and the second most powerful figure in France, you will not need to worry about the outcry from the Duke of Savoy, and whoever else knows of this wish of the King."

Anne swallowed. "What do we know about Mazarin?" she asked finally, for the plan was a sound one, much as she disliked it.

Rochefort sighed. "He was Richelieu's man, from the very beginning of his career. I suspect that he is not as...devout as most would expect the Cardinal to be, but then, neither was Richelieu himself. And he studied under the late Cardinal. He will understand the merging of politics and religion." He raised a hand, when she moved to speak. "I do not say that we should trust him, Your Majesty, only that this will be the best course to avoid any sort of a battle."

Anne nodded. "I understand. I want you to find out more about him, though. Where his loyalties lie. Whether or not he will go to the Council about a coup if we approach him, or if he will keep our secrets."

Rochefort nodded. "In the meantime, while we wait for Spain's response, bring our army back to Paris, to protect the Dauphin at the palace until his coronation."

Anne's forehead wrinkled with a new concern, at those words. "Won't that worry the people? Our bringing in troops to secure the palace? Surely they will think we are bringing them in to defend the king against...uprisers, and that will only cause chaos."

Rochefort shook his head. "Your Majesty, you must protect the Dauphin at all costs. You must not let anyone see your weakness until you are officially named Queen Regent of France."

Anne sighed. "I know," she whispered hoarsely. "I just do not wish to tear France apart before my son can claim it."

Rochefort reached out, placing his hand over Anne's. "We will not allow that, Your Majesty," he promised her, and Anne smiled hesitantly at him, removing her dainty hand and clasping it in her other.


End file.
